“O Martin, my boy! my darling!” she sobbed, “thank God you are come back safe!  Oh, I have been very rebellious, very unbelieving.  I ought to have known that you would be safe.  Oh, I am thankful!”

“So am I, mother,” I said, kissing her, “and very hungry into the bargain.”

I knew that would check her hysterical excitement.  She looked up at me with smiles and tears on her face; but the smiles won the day.

“That is so like you, Martin,” she said; “I believe your ghost would say those very words.  You are always hungry when you come home.  Well, my boy shall have the best breakfast in Guernsey.  Sit down, then, and let me wait upon you.”

That was just what pleased her most whenever I came in from some ride into the country.  She was a woman with fondling, caressing little ways, such as Julia could no more perform gracefully than an elephant could waltz.  My mother enjoyed fetching my slippers, and warming them herself by the fire, and carrying away my boots when I took them off.  No servant was permitted to do any of these little offices for me—­that is, when my father was out of the way.  If he was there, my mother sat still, and left me to wait on myself, or ring for a servant, Never in my recollection had she done any thing of the kind for my father.  Had she watched and waited upon him thus in the early days of their married life, until some neglect or unfaithfulness of his had cooled her love for him?  I sat down as she bade me, and had my slippers brought, and felt her fingers passed fondly through my hair.

“You have come back like a barbarian,” she said, “rougher than Tardif himself.  How have you managed, my boy?  You must tell me all about it as soon as your hunger is satisfied.”

“As soon as I have had my breakfast, mother, I must put up a few things in a hamper to go back by the Sark cutter,” I answered.

“What sort of things?” she asked.  “Tell me, and I will be getting them ready for you.”

“Well, there will be some physic, of course,” I said; “you cannot help me in that.  But you can find things suitable for a delicate appetite; jelly, you know, and jams, and marmalade; any thing nice that comes to hand.  And some good port-wine, and a few amusing books.”

“Books!” echoed my mother.

I recollected at once that the books she might select, as being suited to a Sark peasant, would hardly prove interesting to my patient.  I could not do better than go down to Barbet’s circulating library, and look out some good works there.

“Well, no,” I said; “never mind the books.  If you will look out the other things, those can wait.”

“Whom are they for?” asked my mother.

“For my patient,” I replied, devoting myself to the breakfast before me.

“What sort of a patient, Martin?” she inquired again.

“Her name is Ollivier,” I said.  “A common name.  Our postmaster’s name is Ollivier.”