After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried his hopes at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached.  Caterina would come to love him at last; she would be his.  They had been carried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depth of his love.  How he would cherish her—­his little bird with the timid bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music!  She would nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been so ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore.  In the love of a brave and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tenderness; he gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on him as he lay on his mother’s knee.  It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound labourer the way to Daniel Knott’s, learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground; a useful addition to the means of identifying that desirable homestead afforded by Daniel’s description—­’the prittiest place iver you see’—­though a small cow-yard full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any frivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough to make that description unmistakably specific.

Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, than he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the toga virilis, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual visitor.  In a moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, and sucked a long crust with calm relish.

‘Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?’ said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his way through the damp straw, after tying up his horse.

‘Yes, Dorcas; I’m grown out of your knowledge.  How is Miss Sarti?’

’Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel’s told you; for I reckon you’ve come from the Manor, though you’re come uncommon quick, to be sure.’

’Yes, he got to the Manor about one o’clock, and I set off as soon as I could.  She’s not worse, is she?’

’No change, sir, for better or wuss.  Will you please to walk in, sir?  She lies there takin’ no notice o’ nothin’, no more nor a baby as is on’y a week old, an’ looks at me as blank as if she didn’t know me.  O what can it be, Mr. Gilfil?  How come she to leave the Manor?  How’s his honour an’ my lady?’

’In great trouble, Dorcas.  Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher’s nephew, you know, has died suddenly.  Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the shock has affected her mind.’

‘Eh, dear! that fine young gentlemen as was to be th’ heir, as Dannel told me about.  I remember seein’ him when he was a little un, a-visitin’ at the Manor.  Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady.  But that poor Miss Tina—­an’ she found him a-lyin’ dead?  O dear, O dear!’