It almost seemed, to Mr. Channing’s grateful heart, as if the weather had prolonged its genial warmth on purpose for him. A more charming autumn had never been known at Borcette, and up to the very hour of Mr. Channing’s departure, there were no signs of winter. Taking it as a whole, it had been the same at Helstonleigh. Two or three occasional wet days, two or three cold and windy ones; but they soon passed over and people remarked to each other how this fine weather would shorten the winter.

Never did November turn out a more lovely day than the one that was to witness Mr. Channing’s return. The sun shone brightly; the blue sky was without a cloud. All Nature seemed to have put on a smiling face to give him welcome. And yet—to what was he returning?

For once in his life, Hamish Channing shrank from meeting his father and mother. How should he break the news to them? They were arriving full of joy, of thankfulness at the restoration to health of Mr. Channing: how could Hamish mar it with the news regarding Charles? Told it must be; and he must be the one to do it. In good truth, Hamish was staggered at the task. His own hopeful belief that Charley would some day “turn up,” was beginning to die out; for every hour that dragged by, without bringing him, certainly gave less and less chance of it. And even if Hamish had retained hope himself, it was not likely he could impart it to Mr. or Mrs. Channing.

“I shall get leave from school this afternoon,” Tom suddenly exclaimed that morning at breakfast.

“For what purpose?” inquired Hamish.

“To go up to the station and meet them.”

“No, Tom. You must not go to the station.”

“Who says so?” sharply cried Tom.

“I do,” replied Hamish.

“I dare say! that’s good!” returned Tom, speaking in his hasty spirit. “You know you are going yourself, Hamish, and yet you would like to deprive me of the same pleasure. Why, I wouldn’t miss being there for anything! Don’t say, Hamish, that you are never selfish.”

Hamish turned upon him with a smile, but his tone changed to sadness. “I wish with all my heart, Tom, that you or some one else, could go and meet them, instead of myself, and undertake what I shall have to do. I can tell you I never had a task imposed upon me that I found so uncongenial as the one I must go through this day.”

Tom’s voice dropped a little of its fierce shade. “But, Hamish, there’s no reason why I should not meet them at the station. That will not make it the better or the worse for you.”

“I will tell you why I think you should not,” replied Hamish; “why it will be better that you should not. It is most desirable that they should be home, here, in this house, before the tidings are broken to them. I should not like them to hear of it in the streets, or at the station; especially my mother.”

“Of course not,” assented Tom.

“And, were you at the station,” quietly went on Hamish to him, “the first question would be, ‘Where’s Charley?’ If Tom Channing can get leave of absence from school, Charley can.”

“I could say—”

“Well?” said Hamish, for Tom had stopped.

“I don’t know what I could say,” acknowledged Tom.

“Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth. If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after Charles; they will suppose you are both in school.”

“I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to frustrate it!” cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention from that moment.

Chattering Annabel threw up her head. “As soon as papa and mamma come home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking about it with Lady Augusta.”

“Do not talk of mourning, child,” returned Hamish. “I can’t give him up, if you do.”

Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom, listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he should walk his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor Tom and his plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from each, after congratulations, would be, “What a sad thing this is about your little Charles!” Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution in keeping away Tom.

But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish, his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage, walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly, as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother’s.

“Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?” asked Mr. Channing, when the first few words of thankful greeting had passed.

“I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any one else,” was the reply of Hamish. “You know I always said you would so return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother.”

“What is the matter with me, Hamish?” asked Mrs. Channing. “Because you would make about two of the thin, pale, careworn Mrs. Channing who went away,” cried he, turning his mother round to look at her, deep love shining out from his gay blue eyes. “I hope you have not taken to rouge your cheeks, ma’am, but I am bound to confess they look uncommonly like it.”

Mrs. Channing laughed merrily. “It has done me untold good, Hamish, as well as papa; it seems to have set me up for years to come. Seeing him grow better day by day would have effected it, without any other change.”

Mr. Channing had actually gone himself to see after the luggage. How strange it seemed! Hamish caught him up. “If you can give yourself trouble now, sir, there’s no reason that you should do so, while you have your great lazy son at your elbow.”

“Hamish, boy, I am proud of doing it.”

It was soon collected. Hamish hastily, if not carelessly, told a porter to look to it, took Mr. Channing’s arm, and marched him to the fly, which Mrs. Channing had already found. Hamish was in lively dread of some officious friend or other coming up, who might drop a hint of the state of affairs.

“Shall I help you in, father!”

“I can help myself now, Hamish. I remember you promised me I should have no fly on my return. You have thought better of it.”

“Yes, sir, wishing to get you home before bed-time, which might not be the case if you were to show yourself in the town, and stop at all the interruptions.”

Mr. Channing stepped into the fly. Hamish followed, first giving the driver a nod. “The luggage! The luggage!” exclaimed Mrs. Channing, as they moved off.

“The porter will bring it, mother. He would have been a month putting it on to the fly.”

How could they suppose anything was the matter? Not a suspicion of it ever crossed them. Never had Hamish appeared more light-hearted. In fact, in his self-consciousness, Hamish a little overdid it. Let him get them home before the worst came!

“We find you all well, I conclude!” said Mrs. Channing. “None of them came up with you! Arthur is in college, I suppose, and Tom and Charles are in school.”

“It was Arthur’s hour for college,” remarked Hamish, ignoring the rest of the sentence. “But he ought to be out now. Arthur is at Galloway’s again,” he added. “He did not write you word, I believe, as you were so shortly expected home.”

Mr. Channing turned a glance on his son, quick as lightning. “Cleared, Hamish?”

“In my opinion, yes. In the opinion of others, I fear not much more than he was before.”

“And himself?” asked Mr. Channing. “What does he say now?”

“He does not speak of it to me.”

Hamish put his head out at the window, nodding to some one who was passing. A question of Mr. Channing’s called it in again.

“Why has he gone back to Galloway’s?”

Hamish laughed. “Roland Yorke took an impromptu departure one fine morning, for Port Natal, leaving the office and Mr. Galloway to do the best they could with each other. Arthur buried his grievances and offered himself to Mr. Galloway in the emergency. I am not quite sure that I should have been so forgiving.”

“Hamish! He has nothing to forgive Mr. Galloway. It is on the other side.”

“I am uncharitable, I suppose,” remarked Hamish. “I cannot like Mr. Galloway’s treatment of Arthur.”

“But what is it you say............