“Sir Harold is right,” said Mrs. Archer. “Lady Wynde and Miss Wynde should not first hear the news by telegraph, or letter, or through the newspapers. Their impatience, anxiety, and suspense, after hearing that Sir Harold still lives, and before they can see him, will be terrible. The shock, as Sir Harold suggests, might almost be fatal to Lady Wynde.” “My wife is always right,” said the burly major, with a glance of admiration at his spouse. “Sir Harold, you cannot do better than to follow your instincts and my Molly’s counsels. It is settled then, that you return to England under an assumed name, and see your own family before you proclaim your adventures to the world. What name shall you adopt as a ‘name of voyage,’ to translate from the French?” “I will call myself Harold Hunlow,” said the baronet. “Hunlow was my mother’s name. I am rested, Major, and if you can give me a mount, we’ll be off at sunset on our way to Calcutta.” It was thus agreed. That very evening Sir Harold Wynde and Major Archer set out for Calcutta on horseback, arriving in time to secure passage in the _Mongolian_. And on the third day after leaving Major Archer’s bungalow, Sir Harold Wynde was at sea, and on his way to England. Ah, what a reception awaited him! CHAPTER XXIII. NEVA’S DECISION ABOUT RUFUS. Could her guardian angel have whispered to Neva that her father did indeed still live, and that at the very moment of her vivid dream he stood upon the veranda of Major Archer’s Indian bungalow, weak, wasted and weary, but with the principle of life strong within him, what agony she might have been spared in the near future! what terrors and perils she might perhaps have escaped! But she did not know it--she could not guess that life held for her a joy so rare, so pure, so sweet, as that of welcoming back to his home her father so long and bitterly mourned as dead. As we have said, she remained awake during the remainder of the night, walking her floor in her white gown and slippered feet, now and then wringing her hands, or sobbing softly, or crying silently; and thus the weary hours dragged by. Before the clear sunlight of the soft September morning, which stole at last into her pleasant rooms, Neva’s dream lost its vividness and semblance of reality, and the conviction settled down upon her soul that it was indeed “only a dream.” She dressed herself for breakfast in a morning robe of white, with cherry-colored ribbons, but her face was very pale, and there was a look of unrest in her red-brown eyes when she descended slowly and wearily to the breakfast-room at a later hour than usual. This room faced the morning sun, and was octagon shaped, one half of the octagon projecting from the house wall, and being set with sashes of French plate-glass, like a gigantic bay-window. One of the glazed sections opened like a door upon the eastern marble terrace, with its broad surface, its carved balustrade, and its rows of rare trees and shrubs in portable tubs.