At last we parted with mutual dissatisfaction; and I went moodily downstairs, followed by Jack.  We drove back to Brook Street, to spend the few hours that remained before the train started for Southampton.

“Doctor,” said Simmons, as Jack paid him his fare, with a small coin added to it, “I’m half afeard I’ve done some mischief.  I’ve been turning it over and over in my head, and can’t exactly see the rights of it.  A gent, with a pen behind his ear, comes down, at that orfice in Gray’s Inn Road, and takes my number.  But after that he says a civil thing or two.  ‘Fine young gents,’ he says, pointing up the staircase.  ’Very much so,’ says I.  ‘Young doctors?’ he says.  ‘You’re right,’ I says.  ’I guessed so,’ he says; ‘and pretty well up the tree, eh?’ ‘Ay,’ I says; ’the light-haired gent is son to Dr. Senior, the great pheeseecian; and the other he comes from Guernsey, which is an island in the sea.’  ’Just so,’ he says; ‘I’ve heard as much.’  I hope I’ve done no mischief, doctor?”

“I hope not, Simmons,” answered Jack; “but your tongue hangs too loose, my man.—­Look out for a squall on the Olivia coast, Martin,” he added.

My anxiety would have been very great if I had not been returning immediately to Guernsey.  But once there, and in communication with Tardif, I could not believe any danger would threaten Olivia from which I could not protect or rescue her.  She was of age, and had a right to act for herself.  With two such friends as Tardif and me, no one could force her away from her chosen home.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

HOME AGAIN.

My mother was looking out for me when I reached home the next morning.  I had taken a car from the pier-head to avoid meeting any acquaintances; and hers was almost the first familiar face I saw.  It was pallid with the sickly hue of a confirmed disease, and her eyes were much sunken; but she ran across the room to meet me.  I was afraid to touch her, knowing how a careless movement might cause her excruciating pain; but she was oblivious of every thing save my return, and pressed me closer and closer in her arms, with all her failing strength, while I leaned my face down upon her dear head, unable to utter a word.

“God is very good to me,” sobbed my mother.

“Is He?” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, so forced and altered it was.

“Very, very good,” she repeated.  “He has brought you back to me.”

“Never to leave you again, mother,” I said—­“never again!”

“No; you will never leave me alone again here,” she whispered.  “Oh, how I have missed you, my boy!”

I made her sit down on the sofa, and sat beside her, while she caressed my hand with her thin and wasted fingers.

I must put an end to this, if I was to maintain my self-control.

“Mother,” I said, “you forget that I have been on the sea all night, and have not had my breakfast yet.”