“And a great deal better for you, if your judgment was to take you to the ‘Red Lion,’” said Joan. She was gradually edging him out, suppressing Isaac’s inclination to say a great deal more. “Good day,” she cried, “good day,” conducting him to the door. “I am very much obliged to you; and next time you go to Wyburgh you’ll be sure to take the White House on your way.” When she had closed the door Joan turned round quickly upon her mother. Mrs. Joscelyn was lying back in her chair, with those expressive hands of hers lying loosely in her lap. The relief in her mind had relaxed all the nervous tightening of her muscles. She had sunk back with that softening sense of relief which makes freedom from pain no negative but an active blessedness. The pressure upon her brain, and her heart, and her very breath, seemed withdrawn. Sitting so quietly by the window, an image of domestic tranquillity, she had been a mere collection of beating pulses, of hot throbs and concussions; but now all these agitations were stilled; her heart dropped into quietness, like a bird into its nest, her blood ran softly in her veins. She smiled faintly at Joan when she went up to her, and said in a scarcely audible voice, “Thank God!” “That’s true,” said Joan, “but how often have I told you, mother, that things would come all right if you would not make a fuss? The fellow was in no danger after all, not in any danger at any time, just as well off as a lad could be, petted by old Eadie, and with Uncle Henry to look after him. Of course I knew he must have been there.” “You never said it, Joan.” “No,” said Joan, with a laugh rendered unsteady by the same sense of relief, “I knew it the moment I heard it, mother. I am not setting up for more sense than other folk; the moment I heard Isaac’s voice asking for me I knew it in a moment, but not till then. Just see what fools we are, the wisest of us,” said Joan, reflectively. “I think I’ve got a little sense; but I have no more than other folk, till it’s put into my head. Well! it’s a comfort to know his address to write to, and that he’s gone to his work, and no harm done; for he has a queer temper, has Harry. He’s not just like the rest of us; he might have done a desperate thing, being the kind of lad he is. That’s always been on my mind. I would not have said it till now, but that was always in my mind. A lad like that, there was no telling what he mightn’t have done; but don’t I aye tell you, mother, if you don’t make a fuss things will always come right at the end?” Then Joan did what was a very strange thing for her, she sat down and had a little cry all to herself. She had never betrayed the depth of her anxiety before, but the running over of her satisfaction and relief betrayed her.