“Hark!” as the crash of a peal of bells came up.  “Dear child, you will like to rest before any fresh introductions.  You shall go to your room and have some tea there.”

“Thank you.”

“Charlie, call Susan.—­She is my boys’ old nurse, now mine.  Only tell me you have good accounts from my boy Miles.”

“Oh yes;” and the hand tightly clasped the closely-written letter for which the mother’s eyes felt hungry.  “He sent you his love, and he will write to you next time.  He was so busy, his first lieutenant was down in fever.”

“Where was he?”

“Off Zanzibar—­otherwise the crew was healthy—­the 12th of August,” she answered, squeezing out the sentences as if constrained by the mother’s anxious gaze.

“And he was quite well when you parted with him?”

“Quite.”

“Ah! you nursed my boy, and we must nurse you for him.”

“Thank you, I am quite well.”  But she bit her lip, and spoke constrainedly, as if too shy and reserved to give way to the rush of emotion; but the coldness pained Mrs. Poynsett, whose expansiveness was easily checked; and a brief silence was followed by Charlie’s return to report that he could not find nurse, and thought she was out with the other servants, watching for the arrival; in another moment, the approaching cheers caused him to rush out; and after many more noises, showing the excitement of the multitude and the advance of the bridal pair, during which Mrs. Poynsett lay with deepening colour and clasped hands, her nostrils dilating with anxiety and suppressed eagerness, there entered a tall, dark, sunburnt man bringing on his arm a little, trim, upright, girlish figure; and bending down, he exclaimed, “There, mother, I’ve brought her—­here’s your daughter!”

Two little gloved hands were put into hers, and a kiss exchanged, while Raymond anxiously inquired for his mother’s health; and she broke in by saying, “And here is Anne—­Miles’s Anne, just arrived.”

“Ah, I did not see you in the dark,” said Raymond.  “There, Cecil, is a sister for you—­you never had one.”

Cecil was readier with greeting hand and cheek than was Anne, but at the same moment the tea equipage was brought in, and Cecil, quite naturally, and as a matter of course, began to preside over the low table, while Raymond took his accustomed chair on the further side of his mother’s sofa, where he could lean over the arm and study her countenance, while she fondled the hand that he had hung over the back.  He was describing the welcome at the station, and all through the village—­the triumphal arches and shouts.

“But how they did miss you, mother,” said Charlie.  “Old Gurnet wrung my hand in tears as he said, ’Yes, sir, ’tis very fine, but it beats the heart out of it that madam bain’t here to see.’”

“Good old Gurnet!” responded Raymond.  “They are famously loyal.  The J. C. P. crowned all above all the Cs and Rs, I was happy to see.”