The Lycett-Landons went home to the Grove that night. Horace asked his mother no questions. He helped her to lift up and place upon a sofa the visitor whose strength had failed her so strangely; but how much he heard from Mr Fareham, or how much he guessed, she never knew. He was anxious to go home at once, and, instead of making any objections as she had feared, facilitated everything. He was very kind and tender to her on the journey, taking care of her and of her comfort, saving her from every trouble. This had not heretofore been Horace's way. He was still so young that the habit of being taken care of was more natural to him than that of taking care of others; but he had learned a new version apparently of his duty on that strange and agitating day. It was late when they reached the Mersey again, and the great river was full of shooting fireflies, little steamers with their sparks of glowing colour flitting and rustling to and fro among the steady lights of the moored ships. The sky was pale with the rising moon, the stars appearing languidly out of the clouds. As they crossed the river to their home, sitting close together on the deck, saying nothing to each other, avoiding in the darkness all contact with the other passengers, two or three little steam-boats rustled past, full of music and a crowd of merrymakers going home noisy and happy after a day's pleasure. The sky was stained all round the horizon behind them by the smoke of the great town, but before them was soft and clear with fringes of dark foliage and outlines of peaceful houses rising against it. Everything was full of quiet and peace, no false or discordant note anywhere; even the fiddles and flutes of the bands harmonised by the air and water and magical space about, and the dew dropping, and the moon rising. It was only forty-eight hours since they had left their home almost under the same conditions, but what a change there was!