Anne remembered at the Duke of York’s when she was a little child.  His thin, marked face was the reverse of handsome, but it was keen, shrewd, perhaps satirical, and the remarkable eyes were very bright under dark eyebrows and lashes, and the thin lips, devoid of hair, showed fine white teeth when parted by a smile of gladness—­at the meeting—­though he was concerned to hear that Mrs. Woodford had been very ill all the last spring, and had by no means regained her former health, and even in the few words that passed it might be gathered that Anne was far more hopeful than her uncle.

She did indeed look greatly changed, though her countenance was sweeter than ever, as she rose from her seat by the fire and held out her arms to receive the newcomer with a motherly embrace, while the expression of joy and affection was such as could never once have seemed likely to sit on Peregrine Oakshott’s features.  They were left together, for Anne had the final touches to put to the supper, and Dr. Woodford was sent for to speak to one of the Cathedral staff.

Peregrine explained that he was on his way home, his father having recalled him on his brother’s death, but he hoped soon to rejoin his uncle, whose secretary he now was.  They had been for the last few months in London, and were thence to be sent on an embassy to the young Czar of Muscovy, an expedition to which he looked forward with eager curiosity.  Mrs. Woodford hoped that all danger of infection at Oakwood was at an end.

“There is none for me, madam,” he said, with a curious writhed smile.  “Did you not know that they thought they were rid of me when I took the disease at seven years old, and lay in the loft over the hen-house with Molly Owens to tend me? and I believe it was thought to be fairy work that I came out of it no more unsightly than before.”

“You are seeking for compliments, Peregrine; you are greatly improved.”

“Crooked sticks can be pruned and trained,” he responded, with a courteous bow.

“You are a travelled man.  Let me see, how many countries have you seen?”

“A year at Berlin and Konigsberg—­strange places enough, specially the last, two among the scholars and high roofs of Leyden, half a year at Versailles and Paris, another year at Turin, whence back for another half year to wait on old King Louis, then to the Hague, and the last three months at Court.  Not much like buying and selling cows, or growing wheat on the slopes, or lying out on a cold winter’s night to shoot a few wild fowl; and I have you to thank for it, my first and best friend!”

“Nay, your uncle is surely your best.”

“Never would he have picked up the poor crooked stick save for you, madam.  Moreover, you gave me my talisman,” and he laid his hand on his breast; “it is your face that speaks to me and calls me back when the elf, or whatever it is, has got the mastery of me.”