It was once more spring when Bertie returned. Spring--Easter--that resurrection time which came to our hearts with a more touching force when we received home into our peaceful house--so pale, so worn out, and yet so sunburnt and scarred with violent labors past--that Bertie, who had gone from us so strong and so bold. He had been repeatedly wounded--had suffered more than once from fever--had felt, at last, that his health was broken, and that there was little more use in him while he remained in India, and so was persuaded to come home. Derwent, kindest of friends, went to meet him at Southampton, and brought him home as tenderly as any nurse, or rather far more tenderly, with a tenderness more considerate and requiring less response than that of a woman. To see our young hero an invalid, overpowered me entirely. I quite broke down under it, comparing him with what he was, and fearing everything from the mortal paleness, thrown by his sunbrowned complexion into a ghastly yellow, which sometimes overspread his face. Derwent judged more justly--he held up his finger to me when he saw the exclamation of dismay and grief that trembled on my lips. “He’s tired, Clare,” said my husband. “A bright fire, and an English bed and rest--that’s all Bertie wants to-night. He’ll answer all your questions to-morrow. Come, old fellow, you know your way to your old room.” “I should think so, indeed--and thank God I am at home,” cried Bertie, with his familiar voice. With a thrill of anguish I restrained my salutations and followed quietly to see that all was comfortable for him. He protested that it was nonsense, that he could come downstairs perfectly well, that Mr. Crofton only wanted to humble his vanity; but at the same moment drew up his foot wearily upon the sofa, with a gesture that showed better than words his need of rest. “Alas, Derwent, has it come to this?” said I, as we went downstairs. Derwent turned round upon me, put his big hands upon my shoulders, and thrust me in before him to the handiest room. “Now, Clare,” he said, with comical solemnity, “if we are going to have any nonsense or lamentations, I’ll shut you up here till my patient’s better. The boy is as sound as I am, and would be able to ride to cover in a fortnight, if any such chances were going. Now don’t say a word--I am speaking simple truth.” “I must trust my own eyes,” said I; “but you need not fear my indiscretion. See how I have refrained from agitating him now.” “Agitating him! Oh!” cried Derwent, with a good-humored roar. “What stuff you speak, to be sure! He is quite able to be agitated as much as you please--there is nothing in the world but wounds and fatigue the matter with Bertie. I am afraid you are only a woman after all, Clare; but you’re not to interfere with my patient. I’ve taken him in hand, and mind you, I’m to have the credit, and bring him through.” “But, oh, Derwent,” said I, “how pale he is!”