of the war had found its end.  Buntingford had naturally no heart for pageants; but Helena had been astonished by Geoffrey’s telegram, which had arrived the night before from the Lancashire town he represented in Parliament.  As an M.P. he ought surely to have been playing his part in the great show.  Moreover, she had not expected him so soon, and she had done nothing to hurry his coming.  His telegram had brought a great flush of colour into her face.  But she made no other sign.

“Oh, well, we can take them out to see bonfires!” she had said, putting on her most careless air, and had then dismissed the subject.  For that night the hills of the north were to run their fiery message through the land, blazoning a greater victory than Drake’s; and Helena, who had by now made close friends with the mountains, had long since decided on the best points of view.

Since then Lucy had received no confidences, and asked no questions.  A letter had reached her, however; by the morning’s post, from Miss Alcott, giving an account of the situation at Beechmark, of the removal of the boy to his father’s house, and of the progress that had been made in awakening his intelligence and fortifying his bodily health.

“It is wonderful to see the progress he has made—­so far, entirely through imitation and handwork.  He begins to have some notion of counting and numbers—­he has learnt to crochet and thread beads—–­poor little lad of fifteen!—­he has built not only a tower but something like a house, of bricks—­and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him the first rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way—­lip-reading and the like.  He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainly the results are most promising.  I believe his mother protested to Lord Buntingford that he had not been neglected.  Nobody can believe her, who sees now what has been done.  Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples was consulted as to the possibility of an operation.  But when that was dropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and the child would have fared very badly, if it had not been for the old bonne—­Zelie—­who was and is devoted to him.  His mother was ashamed of him, and came positively to hate the sight of him.

“But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems to weaken.  Food, special exercise, massage—­poor Lord Buntingford has been trying everything—­but with small result.  It is pitiful to see him watching the child, and hanging on the doctors.  ’Shall we stop all the teaching?’ he said to John the other day in despair—­’my first object is that he should live,’ But it would be cruel to stop the teaching now.  The child would not allow it.  He himself has caught the passion of it.  He seems to me to live in a fever of excitement and joy, as one step follows another, and the door opens a little wider for his poor prisoned soul.  He adores his father, and will sit beside him, stroking his silky beard, with his tiny fingers, and looking at him with his large pathetic eyes ...  They have taken him to Beechmark, as you know, and given him a set of rooms, where he and his wonderful little teacher, Miss Denison—­trained in the Seguin method, they say—­and the old bonne Zelie live.  The nurse has gone.