To her Uncle Horace, the last arrival was simply a fresh possession of Harry’s, a ‘rum’ and funny possession, with which the bachelor uncle was chary in having much to do, and that inflicted on him sundry spasms of bashfulness, but of which on the whole he did not disapprove. As for Oliver, ‘the little woman’ made him more inclined to thank God and take courage. She was a tiny, weak weapon which might yet prove all-powerful in casting down strongholds and overthrowing a foul god, even the jovial Bacchus of Greek worship, which, seen near, was hideous as Dagon and cruel as Moloch. But there came a speedy interruption to Fan’s recovery. Harry, whom her danger and weakness, together with the gift she had made him, subdued for the moment, was devoted to her in those days. He was sitting by her sofa, when she started up, and fixing on him eyes full of the craving care of an inappeasable anxiety, amazed and alarmed even Harry, who hardly knew what mental apprehension, any more than physical fear, meant, by the eager inquiry, ‘Where’s Harry?’ He hastened to soothe her by the assurance of his presence, without effect. He cried aloud, as he quailed before the blank non-recognition, and impatient denial of the glance which met his imploring looks, for Horry—Constable—any witness to convince Fan that here was Harry by her side. The witnesses came quickly, and she knew each of them—down to the nurse who had been an utter stranger to her till within the last few weeks; but she did not know her husband, and she would not believe what the others said of his being himself, and of his standing in the room, the nearest of all to her, bending over her, clasping her hand. ‘Where’s Harry?’ she continued to demand with terrible, heart-rending insistance.