“If I had seen as many dreadful sights as he has, I should be pale too,” said Derwent. “Seriously, he is tired and worn out, but not ill. Don’t be sorry for him, Clare--don’t put anything in his head. Talk pleasantly. I don’t forbid the subject, for example,” said my husband, looking at me with a certain affectionate cloudy mirth, as if he had known my secret all along, “of Alice Harley, if you choose.” I put him aside a little impatiently, and he followed me into the very late dinner, which had been deferred for the arrival of the travellers, and where Bertie’s empty chair struck me again with a little terror. But I was wise for once, and yielded to Derwent’s more cheerful opinion. On the next morning Bertie was better--he went on getting better day by day. Derwent took care of him, and attended him in a way which took me by surprise; never teasing him with questions--never gazing at him with his heart in his eyes, as we womanish creatures do, to mar the work we would give our lives to accomplish; but with his eyes always open, and his attention really missing nothing that happened, and taking account of all. A week after his arrival, Bertie, who hitherto had been telling me, as he could, his adventures in India--dread adventures, interwoven with all the thread of that murderous history--at last broke all at once into the full tide of home talk. “And dear old Estcourt, Cousin Clare,” said Bertie, “stands exactly as it was, I suppose; and Miss Austin as steadfast as the lime trees--and the children to keep the old park cheerful--all as it was?” “All as it was, Bertie; but the other house ready and waiting for you.” I looked up with a little anxiety to see the effect of what I said. Distracted with a disappointed love, Bertie had left us--ill and languid he had returned. I thought my words might recall to his mind at once his old dreams and his present weakness; and with some terror I glanced at his face. He was lying on the sofa in that bright morning room with the great bow window, from which, shining afar like a great picture, he could see all the peaceful slope of our low-country, with the river glistening in links and bends, and the cathedral towers far off, lending a graceful centre and conclusion to the scene. Bertie did not return my glance; he lay still, with a languid ease and satisfaction in his attitude which struck me for the first time--as if he was profoundly content to be there, and felt his fatigues and pains melt away in that warmth of home. As I looked at him a warmer color rose over his brown-pale face, a pleasant glimmer woke in his eye--his whole aspect warmed and brightened--a half conscious smile came playing about his parted lips. Whatever Bertie thought upon, it was neither disappointment nor broken health.