‘Five years! How little can letters convey the true state of affairs! They can but record events—not their effects nor the insensible changes that may have taken place. My aunt’s death I know, but not what my mother is without her. I have heard of my father’s cares, but I have yet to see whether he is aged or broken. And Theodora, she has had many trials, but what can she be—tamed and refined as they tell me she is? I wish I could have gone through London to see Arthur and Violet. There again is the anxious question, whether his repentance is really such as his touching letter led me to hope. One at least I trust to see unchanged—my sweet sister, my best correspondent! Foolish it is to cling to the hope of meeting her again, as that vision of loveliness—that creature of affection and simplicity, that first awoke me to a return of cheerfulness! The boy, too—my godson, my child! he has been the dream of my solitude. At last, here is the village. How bright its welcome, this summer evening! Old faces!—may those at home be as unchanged. Alteration enough here! Even at this distance I see the ruin; but how richly green the park! How fresh the trees, and the shade of the avenue! This is home, thanks to Him who has led me safely back. Whom do I see yonder in the avenue? A gentleman leading a pony, and a little boy on it! Can it be?—impossible! Yet the step and manner are just as he used to lead Violet’s horse, Surely, it must be he! I must meet him and hear all before going up to the house, it will prepare them. Stop here.

He was out of the carriage in a moment, and walking down the avenue, feeling as if he only now was in the right way home; but a misgiving crossing him as he came nearer the two figures that had attracted him—there was less resemblance on a nearer view than in the general air when further off.

A shout—‘Hollo, John!’ settled all doubts.

‘Arthur! is it you?’ and the brothers’ hands were locked together.

‘Here is a gentleman you know something of, and who has thought very much of you,’ continued Arthur, proudly. ‘There, is not he like her?’ as he tried to give a cock-up to the limp, flapping straw hat, under shade of which Johnnie was glowing up to his curls.

‘Her very look!’ said John. ‘How is she, Arthur, and all of them?’

‘All well. Have you not been at home yet!’

‘No; I saw you here, and I could not help coming to meet you, that I might know if all was right.’

‘You would have found no one at home, unless my mother and Violet are come in. They are always creeping about together.’

‘Where is my father?’

‘Looking after the workmen at the farm. We left him there because it was Johnnie’s supper-time. Why, John, what a hale, middle-aged looking subject you are grown! Was it not wonderful sagacity in me to know you?’

‘Greater than mine,’ said John. ‘My instinct was failing as I came near. Are you really well?’

‘Never better. Johnnie and his mamma nursed me well again, and Helvellyn breezes blew away the remainder. When did you land?’

‘This morning. We put in at Liverpool, and I came on at once. How is my mother? She had not been well.’

‘She was ailing all the winter, but a house full of grandchildren seems to have cured her completely. You will stare to see her a perfect slave to—our eldest girl,’ said Arthur, checking himself as he was about to speak the name, and John turned to the child.

‘Well, Johnnie, and are you fond of riding?’

‘With papa holding the rein,’ and Johnnie edged closer to his father.

‘Ay! I hope your uncle did not expect a godson like your dear Coeur de Lion, whom you have been romancing about all the way home. What is the country your uncle has seen, and you want to see, Johnnie?’

‘Please, don’t now, papa,’ whispered Johnnie, colouring deeply.

‘Yes, yes, you shall have it out when you are better acquainted,’ said Arthur, patting both boy and pony. ‘Well, John, is this the fellow you expected?’

John smiled, but before he could answer, a voice from behind, shouting to them to wait, caused him to turn, exclaiming, ‘Percy! I did not know he was here! And Theodora!’

‘He came a day or two ago—’

Theodora blushed crimson, and all the glad words of welcome were spoken by Percy; but he then fell into the background, taking charge of Johnnie, while the other three walked on together, Theodora’s arm within that of her eldest brother.

‘Thank you for your letter,’ said Arthur. ‘It did me great good.’

‘My impulse was to have set out at once on receiving yours, but I was obliged to wait to get things into train for going on without me; and since that there have been delays of steamers.’

‘You could not have come at a better time. We only wanted you to make us complete—’

Arthur was interrupted by a joyous outcry of ‘Papa! papa!’ from a little group on the other side of the road into which they were emerging.

‘Ay! and who else! Look at this fellow!’ cried he, catching from Sarah’s arm, and holding aloft an elf, whose round mouth and eyes were all laughter, and sturdy limbs all movement, the moment he appeared. ‘There! have we not improved in babies since your time! And here is a round dumpling that calls itself Anna. And that piece of mischief is grandmamma’s girl, Aunt Theodora’s double.’

Those flashing black eyes were not the ideal John had attached to the name which Arthur had paused to speak; but it would have been hard to be disappointed by the bright creature, who stood on the raised foot-path, pretending to hide her face with a bunch of tall foxgloves, and peeping out behind them to see whether she was noticed.

‘The introduction is all on one side,’ said Percy. ‘Do you know who it is, Helen?’

Helen stuck her chin into her neck. She would tell her surmise to no one but Johnnie, who had persuaded Mr. Fotheringham to lift him from horseback, where he was never at ease with any one but papa. He looked up smiling: ‘Helen thinks it must be Uncle Martindale, because papa is so glad.’

Helen ran away, but returned for a ride; and when the party, that had gathered like a snow-ball, came in front of the cottage, Percy was holding both little sisters on the pony at once, Theodora still leaning on her eldest brother’s arm, Johnnie gravely walking on the foot-path, studying his uncle, and Arthur, with the young Arthur pulling his whiskers all the time, was walking forwards and backwards, round and about his brother, somewhat in the ecstatic aimless fashion of a dog who meets his master.

He was the first to exclaim, ‘There she is! Run on, Johnnie, tell mamma and grandmamma whom we have here.’

The first greeting was left exclusively to Lady Martindale. When John’s attention was again at liberty, Violet was standing by her husband, saying, with a sweet smile of playful complaint, ‘And you have shown him all the children and I was not there!’

‘Never mind. They will show off much better with you, you jealous woman. What does John think to hear you scolding?’

‘Has he seen all the children?’ said Lady Martindale, taking up the note. ‘Oh! what is Mr. Fotheringham doing with Helen and Annie? It is very dangerous!’

And Lady Martindale hastened to watch over the little girls, who, of course, were anything but grateful for her care, while Violet was asking John about his voyage, and inquiring after the interests he had left in Barbuda.

The first sight of her was a shock. The fragile roses that had dwelt on his imagination had faded away, and she was now, indeed, a beautiful woman,—but not the creature of smiles and tears whom he remembered. The pensive expression, the stamp of anxiety, and the traces of long-continued over-exertion, were visible enough to prove to him that his fears had been fulfilled, and that she had suffered too deeply ever to return to what she had once been.

Yet never had John so enjoyed an arrival, nor felt so thoroughly at home, as when his father had joined them, full of quiet and heartfelt gladness. Stiffness and formality seemed to have vanished with the state rooms; and there was no longer the circle on company terms, for Lady Martindale herself was almost easy, and Theodora’s words, though few, were devoid of the sullen dignity of old times. Violet’s timidity, too, was gone, and the agitated wistful glances she used to steal towards her husband, had now become looks of perfect, confiding, yet fostering affection. John saw her appealed to, consulted, and put forward as important to each and all of the family party, as if every one of them depended on her as he had been wont to do, while she still looked as retiring as ever, and taken up by watching that the children behaved well.

The occupation of the evening was the looking over plans for the new house. Lord Martindale had them all ready, and John soon perceived that his father’s wishes were that he should prefer those which most nearly reproduced the original building, pulled down to please Mrs. Nesbit. Lady Martindale had surprised them by making from memory a beautiful sketch of the former house; and her husband, to whom each line produced a fresh hoard of reminiscences, was almost disappointed that John’s recollection did not go back far enough to recognize the likeness, though he was obliged to confess that not a wall of it was standing when he was two years old.

The general vote was, of course, that Old Martindale should be renewed,—and it was to be begun—when?

‘When ways and means are found,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘We must talk over that another time, John.’

John, as he bade Theodora good night, murmured thanks for the safety of all the properties which he had been surprised to find in the room prepared for him. Her eyes were liquid as she faltered her answer.

‘O, John, it was such a pleasure! How much you have to forgive! How right you were, and how wrong I was!’

‘Hush! not now,’ said John, kindly.

‘Yes, now, I cannot look at you till I have said it. I have felt the truth of every word you said, and I beg your pardon for all that has passed.’

He pressed her hand in answer, saying, ‘It was my fault. But all is well now, and you know how I rejoice.’

‘Everything is everybody’s fault,’ said Percy, joining him; ‘but we must not stop to battle the point, or Mr. Hugh Martindale’s housekeeper will be irate. Good night, Theodora.’

Percy and John were quartered at the Vicarage, and walked thither, at first in silence, till the former said, ‘Well, what do you think of it?’

‘The best coming home I ever had, and the most surprising. I have seen so much that is unexpected, that I don’t know how to realize it.’

‘Heartsease,’ was Percy’s brief reply.

‘Violet? You don’t mean it!’

‘The history of these years is this,’ said Percy, making an emphatic mark on the gravel with his stick. ‘Every one else has acted, more or less, idiotically. She has gone about softening, healing, guarding, stirring up the saving part of each one’s disposition. If, as she avers, you and Helen formed her, you gave a blessing to all of us.’

‘How can this be? No one has spoken of her power.’

‘It is too feminine to be recognized. When you talk to the others you will see I am right. I will speak for myself. I verily believe that but for her I should have been by this time an unbearable disappointed misanthrope.’

‘A likely subject,’ said John, laughing.

‘You cannot estimate the shock our rupture gave me, nor tell how I tried to say “don’t care,” and never saw my savage spite till her gentle rebuke showed it to me. Her rectitude and unselfishness kept up my faith in woman, and saved me from souring and hardening. On the other hand, her firmness won Theodora’s respect, her softness, her affection. She led where I drove, acted the sun where I acted Boreas; and it is she who has restored us to each other.’

‘Highly as I esteemed Violet, I little thought to hear this! My father wrote that he regretted Theodora’s having been left to one so little capable of controlling her.’

‘Lord Martindale is a very good man, but he has no more discrimination of character than my old cat!’ cried Percy. ‘I beg your pardon, John, but the fact was patent. Mrs. Martindale is the only person who has ever been a match for Theodora. She conquered her, made her proud to submit, and then handed her over to the lawful authorities. If Lord Martindale has an unrivalled daughter, he ought to know whom to thank for it.’

‘I hope he appreciates Violet.’

‘In a sort he does. He fully appreciates her in her primary vocation, as who would not, who had watched her last winter, and who sees what she has made her husband.’

‘Then you are satisfied about Arthur?’

‘Better than I ever thought to be.’

‘And, Percy, what is this that he tells me of your having rescued him at your own expense?’

‘Has he told you all that?’ exclaimed Percy.

‘He wished me to know it in case of his death.’

‘I could not help it, John,’ said Percy, in apology. ‘If you had seen her and her babies, and had to leave him in that condition on her hands, you would have seen there was nothing for it but to throw a sop to the hounds, so that at least they might leave him to die in peace.’

‘It saved him! But why did you object to my father’s hearing of it?’

‘Because I knew he would dislike any sense of obligation, and that he could not conveniently pay it off. Besides, we had to keep Arthur’s mouth shut out of consideration for the blood-vessel, so I told him to let it rest till you should come. I fancy we have all been watching for you as a sort of “Deus ex Machina” to clear up the last act of the drama, though how you are to do so, I cannot conceive.’

The next day was Sunday, almost the first truly homelike Sunday of John’s life. Not only was there the churchgoing among friends and kindred after long separation, but the whole family walked thither together, as John had never known them do before; and with his mother on his arm, his little godson holding Lord Martindale’s hand, Helen skipping between her father and mother, Theodora gentle and subdued, it seemed as if now, for the first time, they had become a household of the same mind.

It was one of the most brilliant days of summer—a cloudless sky of deep blue sunshine, in which the trees seemed to bask, and the air, though too fresh to be sultry, disposing to inaction. After the second service, there was a lingering on the lawn, and desultory talk about the contrast to the West Indian Sundays, and the black woolly-headed congregation responding and singing so heartily, and so uncontrollably gay and merry.

At length, when Johnnie and Helen, who had an insatiable appetite for picaninny stories, had been summoned to supper, John and Violet found that the rest of their companions had dispersed, and that they were alone.

‘I told you that Fanshawe came home with me,’ said John. ‘The new arrangements have increased his income;’ then, as Violet looked up eagerly and hopefully,—‘he made me a confidence, at which I see you guess.’

‘I only hope mamma will not be anxious about the climate. I must tell her how well it has agreed with you.’

‘I am glad that you think there are hopes for him. It has been a long attachment, but he thought it wrong to engage her affections while he had no prospect of being able to marry.’

‘It is what we guessed!’ said Violet. ‘Dear Annette! If he is what I remember him, she must be happy.’

‘I can hardly speak highly enough of him. I have found him a most valuable friend, and am sincerely glad to be connected with him; but, tell me, is not this the sister about whom Percy made a slight mistake!’

‘Oh! do you know that story? Yes, it was dear Annette! Otherwise I should never have known about Mr. Fanshawe. It was only a vague preference, but it was very fortunate that it prevented any attachment to Percy, or it would have been hard to decide what would be right.’

‘Percy was much obliged to you.’

‘He was very kind not to be angry. I could have wished it exceedingly, but I am so glad that I did not persuade Annette, and particularly glad of this, for she has been out of spirits, and rather wasting her bloom at home, without much definite employment.’

‘I understand. And did you never wish that you had influenced her otherwise?’

‘If Percy and Theodora had not been reconciled, I thought I might have done so. It did seem a long time to go on in doubt whether I had acted for her happiness.’

‘But you acted in faith that the straightforward path was the safest.’

‘And now I am so thankful.’ She paused, they were passing the drawing-room, and saw Arthur lying asleep on the sofa. She stepped in at the French window, threw a light shawl over him, and closed the door. ‘He did not sleep till daylight this morning,’ she said, returning to John. ‘Any excitement gives him restless nights.’

‘So I feared when I saw those two red spots on his cheeks in the evening. I know them well! But how white and thin he looks! I want to hear what you think of him. My father considers him fully recovered. Do you?’

Violet shook her head. ‘He is as well as could be hoped after such an illness,’ she said; ‘and Dr. L. tells him there is no confirmed disease, but that his chest is in a very tender state, and he must take the utmost care. That delightful mountain air at Lassonthwayte entirely took away his cough, and it has not returned, though he is more languid and tired than he was in the north, but he will not allow it, his spirits are so high.’

‘I should like you to spend the winter abroad.’

‘That cannot be. If he is able in October, he must join, and the regiment is likely to be in London all the winter,’ said Violet, with a sigh.

‘Then he does not mean to sell out?’

‘No, we cannot afford it. We must live as little expensively as we can, to get clear of the difficulties. Indeed, now the horses are gone, it is such a saving that we have paid off some bills already.’

‘Has Arthur really parted with his horses?’

‘With all of them, even that beautiful mare. I am afraid he will miss her very much, but I cannot say a word against it, for I am sure it is right.’

‘ALL the horses?’ repeated John. ‘What are you to do without a carriage horse?’

‘Oh! that is nothing new. We have not had one fit for me to use, since the old bay fell lame three years ago. That does not signify at all, for walking with the children suits me much better.’

John was confounded. He had little notion of existence without carriages and horses.

‘I shall have Arthur to walk with now. He promises Johnnie and me delightful walks in the park,’ said Violet, cheerfully, ‘if he is but well.’

‘Ah! I see you dread that winter.’

‘I do!’ came from the bottom of Violet’s heart, spoken under her breath; then, as if regretting her admission, she smiled and said, ‘Perhaps there is no need! He has no fears, and it will be only too pleasant to have him at home. I don’t think about it,’ added she, replying to the anxious eyes that sought to read her fears. ‘This summer is too happy to be spoilt with what may be only fancies, and after the great mercies we have received, it would be too bad to distrust and grieve over the future. I have so often thanked you for teaching me the lesson of the lilies.’

‘I fear you have had too much occasion to practise it.’

‘It could not be too much!’ said Violet. ‘But often I do not know what would have become of me, if I had not been obliged, as a duty, to put aside fretting thoughts, and been allowed to cast the shadow of the cross on my vexations.’

His eye fell on a few bright links of gold peeping out round her neck—‘You have THAT still. May I see it?’

She took off the chain and placed it in his hand. ‘Thanks for it, more than ever!’ she said. ‘My friend and preacher in time of need it has often been, and Johnnie’s too.’

‘Johnnie?’

‘Yes, you know the poor little man has had a great deal of illness. This is the first spring he has been free from croup; and you would hardly believe what a comfort that cross has been to him. He always feels for the chain, that he may squeeze Aunt Helen’s cross. At one time I was almost afraid that it was a superstition, he was such a very little fellow; but when I talked to him, he said, “I like it because of our Blessed Saviour. It makes me not mind the pain so much, because you said that was like Him, and would help to make me good if I was patient.” Then I remembered what I little understood, when you told me that the cross was his baptismal gift to sweeten his heritage of pain.’

John was much affected. ‘Helen’s cross has indeed borne abundant fruit!’ said he.

‘I told you how even I forgot it at first in the fire, and how it was saved by Johnnie’s habit of grasping it in his troubles.’

‘I am glad it was he!’

‘Theodora said that he alone was worthy. But I am afraid to hear such things said of him; I am too ready without them to think too much of my boy.’

‘It would be difficult,’ began John; then smiling, ‘perhaps I ought to take to myself the same caution; the thought of Johnnie has been so much to me, and now I see him he is so unlike my expectations, and yet so far beyond them. I feel as if I wanted a larger share of him than you and his father can afford me.’

‘I don’t think we shall be jealous,’ was the happy answer. ‘Arthur is very proud of your admiration of Master Johnnie. You know we have always felt as if you had a right in him.’

Percy and Theodora here returned from the park, rejoicing to find others as tardy in going in as themselves; Arthur, awakened by the voices, came out, and as the others hurried in, asked John what they had been talking about.

‘Of many things,’ said John; ‘much of my godson.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur; ‘did you not wonder how anything so good can belong to me?’

John smiled, and said, ‘His goodness belongs to nothing here.’

‘Nay, it is no time to say that after talking to his mother,’ said Arthur; ‘though I know what you mean, and she would not let me say so. Well, I am glad you are come, for talks with you are the greatest treat to her. She seemed to be gathering them up again at Ventnor, and was always telling me of them. She declares they taught her everything good; though that, of course, I don’t believe, you know,’ he added, smiling.

‘No; there was much in which she needed no teaching, and a few hints here and there do not deserve what she ascribes to them.’

‘John,’ said Arthur, coming nearer to him, and speaking low, ‘she and her boy are more perfect creatures than you can guess, without knowing the worst of me. You warned me that I must make her happy, and you saw how it was the first year. It has been worse since that. I have neglected them, let them deny themselves, ruined them, been positively harsh to that angel of a boy; and how they could love me, and be patient with me throughout, is what I cannot understand, though—though I can feel it.’

‘Truly,’ thought John, as Arthur hastily quitted him, ashamed of his emotion, ‘if Violet be my scholar, she has far surpassed her teacher! Strange that so much should have arisen apparently from my attempt to help and cheer the poor dispirited girl, in that one visit to Ventnor, which I deemed so rash a venture of my own comfort—useless, self-indulgent wretch that I was. She has done the very deeds that I had neglected. My brother and sister, even my mother and Helen’s brother, all have come under her power of firm meekness—all, with one voice, are ready to “rise up and call her blessed!” Nay, are not these what Helen would have most wished to effect, and is it not her memorials that have been the instruments of infusing that spirit into Violet? These are among the works that follow her, or, as they sung this evening—

And in gladness did he stand before the house that had been destined as the scene of his married life, and look forth on the churchyard where Helen slept. He was no longer solitary, since he had begun to bear the burdens of others; for no sooner did he begin to work, than he felt that he worked with her.