Mr. Morpeth had often paid visits to Mark in his bungalow, and there was no more honoured guest at the Collector's table than the old Eurasian, and no more popular man in the little station of Puranapore. Through him, Mark was kept much more in touch with Hester than from Charlie's brief epistles from his London chambers. Often indeed all mention of his sister's name was purposely omitted. So when on Mark's first furlough home he desired to reach her, it was not to Charlie he turned, but decided on more direct methods. When Hester heard footsteps approaching the walnut tree under which she sat, reading the brown volume of poems which had reached her one afternoon at Clive's Road, when she sorely needed its ministry, she took them to be her brother's. "Come here, young man," she called, "sit at my feet and learn wisdom from Browning!" "Nothing will please me better, Hester," answered a familiar voice that was not Charlie's. "Mark--you! I never even knew you had left Madras," exclaimed Hester. "Why ever did Mr. Morpeth not give me that bit of news? Have you just arrived?" "I went to Shropshire first to see my old uncle who has been ailing. He lives--or rather vegetates--in an ancient black-timbered mansion all his lone; but he is a very independent old fellow. I was kept there longer than I reckoned on, owing to something unexpected turning up. Then I had to go to London about some business. I looked up Charlie at his chambers, but he wasn't to be found----" "Oh, Charlie will be overjoyed to see you! He and Cecil are out shooting rabbits just now. I do hope he'll be back soon." Mark did not re-echo that hope. In fact he prayed it might be some time before the walnut grove was invaded by any. His eyes were resting eagerly on Hester. He perceived with joy that the healing process had been at work, binding up the old wounds and restoring serenity to the once sorely troubled life. "I must tell you, Hester," he said with a frank smile, "that I don't feel a stranger to any of your doings. Dear old Morpeth preserves your letters in lavender and gives me a share of them." For a moment Hester was startled, remembering that she had shared many of her most intimate thoughts with the wise saint with whom she felt a close bond; then she answered with a smile as frank as his own. "No, I don't mind. You know so much of those past days, Mark. You could understand much that was only meant for the dear old man." There was something natural and spontaneous in Hester's tone which had the effect of banishing Mark's fears concerning this first meeting with one who, every day since they parted, had become more enshrined in his thoughts.