“God bless you, my good and true friend!  How can I ever thank you?” Her cheek flushed, and her great maternal eye sparkled, and half the beauty of her youth came back.  Her gratitude gave a turn to the conversation which she neither expected nor desired.

“Mrs. Little,” said Dr. Amboyne, “this is the first time you have entered my den, and the place seems transformed by your presence.  My youth comes back to me with the feelings I thought time had blunted; but no, I feel that, when you leave my den again, it will be darker than ever, if you do not leave me a hope that you will one day enter it for good.”

“For shame!  At our age!—­” said the widow.

But she spoilt the remonstrance by blushing like a girl of eighteen.

“You are not old in my eyes; and, as for me, let my years plead for me, since all those years I have lived single for your sake.”

This last appeal shook Mrs. Little.  She said she could not entertain any such thoughts whilst her son was unhappy.  “But marry him to his Grace, and then—­I don’t know what folly I might not be persuaded into.”

The doctor was quite content with that.  He said he would go to Raby, as soon as he could make the journey with safety, and her troubles and her son’s should end.

Mrs. Little drove home, a happy mother.  As for the promise she had made her old friend, it vexed her a little, she was so used to look at him in another light; but she shrugged her maternal shoulders, as much as to say, “When once my Henry leaves me—­why not?”

She knew she must play the politician a little with Henry, so she opened the battery cautiously.  “My dear,” said she, at breakfast, “good news!  Dr. Amboyne undertakes to reconcile us both to your uncle.”

“All the better.  Mr. Raby is a wrong-headed man, but he is a noble-minded one, that is certain.”

“Yes, and I have done him injustice.  Dr. Amboyne has shown me that.”

She said no more.  One step at a time.

Henry went up to Woodbine Villa and Grace received him a little coldly.  He asked what was the matter.  She said, “They tell me you were at the very door the other day, and did not come in.”

“It is true,” said he.  “Another had just come out—­Mr. Coventry.”

“And you punished me because that poor man had called on me.  Have you not faith in me? or what is it?  I shall be angry one of these days.”

“No, you will not, if I can make you understand my feelings.  Put yourself in my place, dearest.  Here am I, fighting the good fight for you, against long odds; and, at last, the brickmakers and bricklayers have beat us.  Now you know that is a bitter cup for me to drink.  Well, I come up here for my one drop of comfort; and out walks my declared rival, looks into my face, sees my trouble there, and turns off with a glance of insolent triumph.” (Grace flushed.) “And then consider:  I am your choice, yet I am only allowed to visit you once a week.”