"Ay, Mr. Turnbull, that very boy--Willie Feltram--even he, and no other; and now you'll shake hands with me, not so formally, but like an old friend." "Ay, that I will," said honest Richard Turnbull, with a great smile, and a hearty grasp of his guest's hand; and they both laughed together, and the younger man's eyes, for he was an affectionate fool, filled up with tears. "And I want you to tell me this," said William, after they had talked a little quietly, "now that there is no one to interrupt us, what has become of my brother Philip? I heard from a friend an account of his health that has caused me unspeakable anxiety." "His health was not bad; no, he was a hardy lad, and liked a walk over the fells, or a pull on the lake; but he was a bit daft, every one said, and a changed man; and, in troth, they say the air o' Mardykes don't agree with every one, no more than him. But that's a tale that's neither here nor there." "Yes," said William, "that was what they told me--his mind affected. God help and guard us! I have been unhappy ever since; and if I only knew it was well with poor Philip, I think I should be too happy. And where is Philip now?" "He crossed the lake one night, having took leave of Sir Bale. They thought he was going to old Trebeck's up the Fells. He likes the Feltrams, and likes the folk at Mardykes Hall--though those two families was not always o'er kind to one another. But Trebeck seed nowt o' him, nor no one else; and what has gone wi' him no one can tell." "_I_ heard that also," said William with a deep sigh. "But _I_ hoped it had been cleared up by now, and something happier been known of the poor fellow by this time. I'd give a great deal to know--I don't know what I _would_ not give to know--I'm so unhappy about him. And now, my good old friend, tell your people to get me a chaise, for I must go to Mardykes Hall; and, first, let me have a room to dress in." At Mardykes Hall a pale and pretty lady was looking out, alone, from the stone-shafted drawing-room window across the courtyard and the balustrade, on which stood many a great stone cup with flowers, whose leaves were half shed and gone with the winds--emblem of her hopes. The solemn melancholy of the towering fells, the ripple of the lonely lake, deepened her sadness. The unwonted sound of carriage-wheels awoke her from her reverie. Before the chaise reached the steps, a hand from its window had seized the handle, the door was thrown open, and William Feltram jumped out. She was in the hall, she knew not how; and, with a wild scream and a sob, she threw herself into his arms. Here at last was an end of the long waiting, the dejection which had reached almost the point of despair. And like two rescued from shipwreck, they clung together in an agony of happiness.