“Much more than he ought to expect,” said Mrs. Poynsett.

“I don’t know,” said Archie.  “If he had refused, it would not have been easy to bring him to the point, I suppose I must have surrendered to take my trial, but after so many years, and with so many deaths, it would have been awkward.”

“And the money, mother,” said Miles, producing a cheque.  “Poor Moy, that was a relief to him.  He said he had kept it ready for years.”  Mrs. Poynsett waved it off as if she did not like to touch it.

“I don’t want it!  Take it, Archie.  Set up housekeeping on it,” she said.  “You are not really going back to that place?”

“Yes, indeed I am; I sail on Tuesday.  Dear good Aunt Julia, how comfortable it is to feel any one caring for me again; but I am afraid even this magnificent present, were it ten times as much, could not keep me; I must go back to fulfil my word to my partner out there, even if I returned at once.”

“And you let him go, Jenny?”

“I must!” said Jenny.  “And only think how different it is now!  For the rest, whether he comes back for me at once, or some years hence, must depend on papa and mamma.”

She spoke with grave content beaming in her eyes, just like herself.  The restoration was still swallowing up everything else.

CHAPTER XXXV Herbert’s Christmas

And when the self-abhorring thrill
   Is past—­as pass it must,
When tasks of life thy spirit fill,
Then be the self-renouncing will
   The seal of thy calm trust.—­Lyra Apostolica

By Christmas Day Archie Douglas was in the Bay of Biscay; but even to Joanna it was not a sorrowful day, for did not Herbert on that day crawl back into his sitting-room, full dressed for the first time, holding tight by her shoulder, and by every piece of furniture on his way to the sofa, Rollo attending in almost pathetic delight, gazing at him from time to time, and thumping the floor with his tail?  He had various visitors after his arrival—­the first being his Rector, who came on his way back from church to give his congratulations, mention the number of convalescents who had there appeared, and speak of the wedding he had celebrated that morning, that of Fanny Reynolds and her Drake, who were going forth the next day to try whether they could accomplish a hawker’s career free from what the man, at least, had only of late learnt to be sins.  It was a great risk, but there had been a penitence about both that Julius trusted was genuine.  A print of the Guardian Angel, which had been her boy’s treasure, had been hung by Fanny in her odd little bedroom, and she had protested with tears that it would seem like her boy calling her back if she were tempted again.

“Not that I trust much to that,” said Julius.  “Poor Fanny is soft, and likes to produce an effect; but I believe there is sterling stuff in Drake.”