As he turned, the suffering woman held out her arms, and he walked back quietly to sink upon his knees by her side. "Pray," she said, softly. "Pray for help and guidance in this storm." And once more there was silence in the room. "He is our boy," whispered Mrs Mallow, as the Rector rose. "Be patient with him, Eli, and all will yet be well. Indeed, indeed, he is good and true of heart. See how tenderly he waits on me." "Just for a minute, now and then," the Rector thought; "and only when it does not clash with some selfish object of his own." And then he fell to thinking of his own years upon years of constant watchfulness and care, and smiled sadly as he saw how that at times the little far outshone the great. But nothing in his countenance betokened aught but the tenderest sympathy and love for her he was leaving behind, as, once more going to the door, the Rector passed through, and descended to his study, leaving Mrs Mallow weeping in her daughters' arms. Here he shut himself in for a few minutes, and rapidly paced the floor, holding his hands the while to his rugged brow. "It is too much--it is too much!" he groaned, panting with the great emotion to which his soul was prey. "If it was not for my girls! If it was not for my girls!" Then he threw himself into his chair, and sat leaning forward with his fingers seeming to be driven into the soft padding of the arms, which he clutched with fierce vehemence. But by degrees the gust of passion passed over, leaving him calm and cool as, once more rising, he smoothed his countenance, and went out of the room in search of Cyril. He was not in the dining-room, nor yet in the little room where he was in the habit of sitting to read and smoke, while the state of the garden was not such as to induce him to wander there. The Rector went up softly to his son's room, but without finding him; and at last he went into the dining-room and rang the bell. "Where is Mr Cyril?" the Rector asked. "He went out about half-an-hour ago, sir." "With Mr Frank?" "No, sir; Mr Frank went out before that." "Did he say what time he would be back?" "No, sir; but Williams came in just now, sir, with Lord Artingale's mare for Miss Cynthia." "Yes?" "And said he met Mr Cyril in the lane leading to Kilby Farm." "Indeed!" "Yes, sir; and he was walking up and down as if he expected somebody to come." PART ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. AN INTERRUPTION. From the way in which people talk of the tender passion it might be supposed to be one long dream of bliss; but a little examination of other people's hearts, and the teachings of the knowledge thus obtained with the experience of years, will go far to show that it is as often as not very far from being a dream, being, in fact, a time of misery, disappointment, and oftentimes of despair.