He pointed to Mr. Holland as he spoke, who, before Henry could reply, said,—­

“Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger to those whose home this is.”

“No, no,” said Henry, “you are no stronger to us, Mr. Holland, but are thrice welcome—­none can be more welcome.  Mr. Marchdale, this is Mr Holland, of whom you have heard me speak.”

“I am proud to know you, sir,” said Marchdale.

“Sir, I thank you,” replied Holland, coldly.

It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.

The appeal of Henry to the servants to know if they could tell him what had occurred was answered in the negative.  All they knew was that they had heard two shots fired, and that, since then, they had remained where they were, in a great fright, until the bell was rung violently.  This was no news at all and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait patiently for the recovery of the mother, or of Flora, from one or the other of whom surely some information could be at once then procured.

Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would Flora have been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said,—­

“I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is likely to do so.  Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence.  Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me?  You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgment.  Flora, dear Flora!”

The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying,—­

“Yes, yes; it is Charles—­it is Charles.”

She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

“Oh, my dear friends,” cried Charles Holland, “do not deceive me; has Flora been ill?”

“We have all been ill,” said George.

“All ill?”

“Ay, and nearly mad,” exclaimed Harry.

Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to extricate herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed,—­

“You must leave me—­you must leave me, Charles, for ever!  Oh! never, never look upon my face again!”

“I—­I am bewildered,” said Charles.

“Leave me, now,” continued Flora; “think me unworthy; think what you will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours.”

“Is this a dream?”

“Oh, would it were.  Charles, if we had never met, you would be happier—­I could not be more wretched.”

“Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my love?”