The figure turned.  “Julius!” came in response; the two cousins’ hands clasped, and there was a sob on either side as they kissed one another as brothers.

“Archie!  How could you!—­Come back!” was all that Julius could say, leaning breathlessly against him and holding him tight.

“No!  Do not know that I have been here.  I was sent to London on business.  I could not help running home in the dark.  No one must know it.  I am dead to them.”

“No, Archie, you are not.  Gadley has confessed and cleared you.  Come home!”

“Cleared me!” The two arms were stretched up to the sky, and there was the sound of a mighty sob, as though the whole man, body, soul, and spirit, were relieved from an unspeakable burthen.  “Say it again, Julius!”

“Gadley, on his death-bed, has confessed that Moy and Proudfoot took that money, incited by Tom Vivian.”

Archie Douglas could not speak, but he turned his face towards Compton again, strode swiftly into the churchyard, and fell on his knees by his mother’s grave.  When at last he rose, he pointed to the new and as yet unmarked mound, and said, “Your mother’s?”

“Oh no!  Raymond’s!  We have had a terrible fever here—­almost a pestilence—­and we are scarcely breathing after it.”

“Ah! some one in the train spoke of sickness at Wil’sbro’, but I would ask no questions, for I saw faces I knew, and I would lead to no recognition.  I could not stay away from getting one sight of the old place.  Miles made it all burn within me; but here’s my return-ticket for the mail-train.”

“Never mind return-tickets.  Come home with me.”

“I shall startle your mother.”

“I meant my home—­the Rectory.  It was my wife who saw you in the churchyard, and sent me after you.  She is watching for you.”

Archie, still bewildered, as if spell-bound by his ticket, muttered, “I thought I should have time to walk over and look at Strawyers.”

“Joanna is here.”

“Julius!  It is too much.  You are sure I am awake?  This is not the old dream!” cried the exile, grasping his cousin’s arm quite gainfully.

“I am a waking man, and I trust you are,” said Julius.  “Come into the light.  No, that is not Jenny on the step.  It is my Rose.  Yes, here he is!”

And as they came into the stream of light from the porch, Irish Rosamond, forgetting that Archie was not a brother, caught him by both hands, and kissed him in overpowering welcome, exclaiming, “Oh, I am so glad!  Come in—­come in!”

There he stood, blinking in the lamplight, a tall, powerful, broad-chested figure, but hardly a hero of romance to suit Terry’s fancy, after a rapid summary of the history from Rosamond.  His hair and beard were as white as Julius’s, and the whole face was tanned to uniform red, but no one could mistake the dazed yet intense gladness of the look.  He sank into a chair, clasped his hands over his face for a moment, then surveyed them all one by one, and said, “You told me she was here.”