“I can understand,” Doctor Churchill answered them both, and they knew he could.  “But just remember that though they were on the other side of the world to stay for years, they can still come back to you.  Just to know that seems to me enough.”

They understood him.  Celia would have made warm-hearted answer, but at that instant the sound of heavy carriage-wheels rapidly rounding the corner and coming toward them made all three turn to look.  The carriage came on at a great pace, swerved toward them, and drew in to the curb, the driver pulling in his horses at their door.

“Who can it be?” breathed Celia.  “Nobody has written.  It must be a mistake.”

Charlotte gasped.  “It couldn’t be—­Celia—­it couldn’t be——­”

The driver leaped from the box and flung open the door.  A tall figure stepped out, turned toward them as if trying to make sure who they were, then waved its arm.  The familiar gesture brought two cries of rapture as Charlotte rushed and Celia hurried down the steps.

The doctor stood still and watched, his pulse quickening in sympathy.  He saw the tall figure grasp in turn both the slender ones, heard two eager cries of “Mother!" and beheld the second occupant of the carriage fairly dragged out, to be smothered in two pairs of impetuous young arms.  Then he went quietly away over the lawn to his own house, feeling that he had as yet no right to be one of the group about the home-comers.

In his room, an hour later, he stood before the portrait of a woman, no longer young, but beautiful with the beauty which never grows old.  He stood looking up at it, then spoke gently to it.

“She’s just your sort, dear,” he said, his keen eyes soft and bright.  “It’s only friendship now, for she’s not much more than a child, and I wouldn’t ask too much too soon.  But some day—­give me your blessing, mother, for I’ve been lonely without you as long as I can bear it.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER X

“The gentle art of cooking in a chafing-dish,” discoursed Captain John Rayburn, lightly stirring in a silver basin the ingredients of the cream sauce he was making for the chopped chicken which stood at hand in a bowl, “is one particularly adapted to the really intelligent masculine mind.  No noise, no fuss, no worry, no smoke, everything systematic,”—­with a practised hand he added the cream little by little to the melted butter and flour—­“business-like and practical.  It is a pleasure to contemplate the delicate growth of such a dish as this which I am preparing.  It is——­”

“You may have thickening enough for all that cream,” Celia interrupted, doubtfully, watching her uncle’s cookery with an anxious eye.

“And you may have sufficient mental poise to be able to lecture on cookery and do the trick at the same time,” supplemented Doctor Churchill, his eyes also on the chafing-dish.  In fact, everybody’s eyes were on the chafing-dish.