“It was Lady Tyrrell who told me,” said Mrs. Poynsett, sympathizing too much with the lovers to perceive that her standpoint of resistance was gone from her.

“Yes,” said Lenore.  “She knew of our walk, and questioned me so closely that I could not conceal anything without falsehood.”

“After she met me at Aucuba Villa?” asked Frank.

“Yes.  Did you tell her anything?”

“I thought she knew more than I found afterwards that she did,” said Frank; “but there’s no harm done.  It is all coming now.”

“She told my father,” said Eleonora, sadly, “and he cannot understand our delay.  He is grieved and displeased, and thinks I have not been open with him.”

“Oh! that will be all right to-morrow,” said Frank.  “I’ll have it out with a free heart, now there’s no fear but that I have passed; and I’ve got the dearest of mothers!  I feel as if I could meet him if he were a dozen examiners rolled into one, instead of the good old benevolent parent that he is!  Ha!  Anne—­Susan—­Jenkins—­thank you—­that’s splendid!  May I have it here?  Super-excellent!  Only here’s half the clay-pit sticking to me!  Let me just run up and make myself decent.  Only don’t let her run away.”

Perhaps Clio would have scorned the instinct that made a Charnock unable to enjoy a much-needed meal in the presence of mother and of love till the traces of the accident and the long walk had been removed.  His old nurse hurried after—­ostensibly to see that his linen was at hand, but really to have her share of the petting and congratulation; and Lenore stood a little embarrassed, till Mrs. Poynsett held out her arms, with the words, “My dear child!” and again she dropped on her knee by the couch, and nestled close in thankful joy.

Presently however, she raised herself, and said sadly, almost coldly, “I am afraid you have been surprised into this.”

“I must love one who so loves my boy,” was the ardent answer.

“I couldn’t help it!” said the maiden, again abandoning herself to the tenderness.  “Oh! it is so good of you!”

“My dear, dear daughter!”

“Only please give me one mother’s kiss!  I have so longed for one.”

“Poor motherless child!  My sweet daughter!”

Then after a pause Eleonora said, “Indeed, I’ll try to deserve better; but oh! pray forgive me, if I cost him much more pain and patience than I am worth.”

“He thinks you well worth anything, and perhaps I do,” said Mrs Poynsett, who was conquered, won over, delighted more than by either of the former brides, in spite of all antecedents.

“Then will you always trust me?” said Eleonora, with clasped hands, and a wondrous look of earnest sincerity on her grave open brow and beautiful pensive dark blue eyes.

“I must, my dear.”

“And indeed I don’t think I could help holding to him, because he seems my one stay and hope here; and now I know it is all right with you, indeed it is such happiness as I never knew.”