By the time he came to the village, the parting light was shining on the lofty church tower, rising above the turmoil and whirl of the darkening world below, almost as sacred old age had lifted his grandmother into perpetual peace and joy, above the fret and vexation of earthly cares and dissensions.  The recollection of her confident trust that reconciliation was in store, came to cheer him as he crossed the park, and the aspect of the house assured him that at least he was not again too late.

The servant who answered the bell said that Mr. Dynevor was very ill, and Miss Dynevor could see no one.  James sent in his card, and stood in an agony of impatience, imagining all and more than all he deserved, to have taken place—­his uncle either dying, or else forcibly withholding his sister from him.

At last there was a hurried step, and the brother and sister were clasping each other in speechless joy.

‘O Jem! dear Jem! this is so kind!’ cried Clara, as with arms round each other they crossed the hall.  ‘Now I don’t care for anything!’

‘My uncle?’

‘Much better,’ said Clara; ’he speaks quite well again, and his foot is less numb.’

‘Was it paralysis?’

’Yes; brought on by trouble and worry of mind.  But how did you know, Jem?’

’Richardson told me.  Oh, Clara, had I offended too deeply for you to summon me?’

‘No, indeed,’ said Clara, pressing his arm, ’I knew you would help us as far as you could; but to throw ourselves on you would be robbing the children, so I wanted to have something fixed before you heard.’

‘My poor child, what could be fixed?’

‘You gave me what is better than house and land,’ said Clara.  ’I wrote to Miss Brigham; she will give me employment in the school till I can find a place as daily governess, and she is to take lodgings for us.’

‘And is this what it has come to, my poor Clara?’

’Oh, don’t pity me! my heart has felt like an India-rubber ball ever since the crash.  Even poor Uncle Oliver being so ill could not keep me from feeling as if the burthen were off my back, and I were little Clara Frost again.  It seemed to take away the bar between us; and so it has!  O Jem! this is happiness.  Tell me of Isabel and the babies.’

‘You will come home to them.  Do you think my uncle would consent?’

She answered with an embrace, a look of rapture and of doubt, and then a negative.  ’Oh, no, we cannot be a burthen on you.  You have quite enough on your hands.  And, oh! you have grown so spare and thin.  I mean to maintain my uncle, if—­’ and her spirited bearing softened into thoughtfulness, as if the little word conveyed that she meant not to be self-confident.

’But, Clara, is this actual ruin?  I know only what Richardson could tell me.’