Every one was very kind, she thought. And Miss Althea, how dear and good she was! After all, it was very comfortable to lie still. The silence, the firelight, the soft warmth, were so soothing. Why were the bees humming so? Beehives and libraries were surely incongruous. And there were white lilies, too, nid-nodding at each other. And the writing-table had gone, and there was a bed of pansies. "Pansies, that's for thoughts," she said to herself. For, little as she knew it, Waveney was fast asleep. CHAPTER XXXI. DOWN BY THE RIVER. "Only upon some cross of pain and woe, God's Son may lie. Each soul redeemed from self and sin, must have Its Calvary." ANON. "The Porch House Thursdays," as they were called, had become red letter days in Thorold Chaytor's life. Ever since that wet Christmas Eve when he had partaken of "cakes and ale" in the hall at the Red House, he had looked forward to them with an intensity that had surprised himself. Little had he thought, when he had generously given a few hours of his scanty leisure to help Althea in her good work, that such deep enjoyment would be the result, and that he would actually count the hours until he could see a certain curly head bending over the book. If only any one had guessed how his heart always leaped at the sight! Thorold's life until now had been laborious and joyless. His home was utterly uncongenial to him. He loved his sister, but there was no real sympathy between them, and, as he would often say bitterly to himself, "Joa cares more for Trist's little finger than for me;" and he was right. Joanna was one of those women whose short-sighted tenderness makes them lavish their best affection on some prodigal, or black sheep. Perhaps the fault might lie a little with Thorold. His calm, self-controlled nature was somewhat repressive; few people understood him, or guessed that underneath the quiet, undemonstrative surface, there was a warm, passionate heart. Perhaps only Althea knew it; and even she was in error about him, for she thought that his intellect dominated his heart; but in this she was wrong. Thorold Chaytor was a keenly ambitious man; he loved his work for its own sake; but he was also desirous of success. As he knew well, his feet were on the first rung of the ladder. His literary work was already meeting with appreciation, and now he held his first brief. The first cold breakers had been passed, and the bold swimmer had his head well above water. Poverty would soon be a thing of the past. But even as he grasped this fact gratefully, he was aware that fresh responsibilities fettered him. Tristram and Betty were on his hands. It would be long, probably years, before Tristram would be able to provide a comfortable home for his child, and when they quitted his roof he clearly foresaw that Joanna would go with them. Nothing would part her from Betty.