His weak arms encircled her, and the pale lips pressed passionate kisses on the tear-wet face. So, whilst the red glory of the sunset lay on the sea, and till the silver stars spangled the sky, the reunited lovers sat in the soft haze as Adam and Eve may have in the loveliness of Eden. "How long since you left England?" Rupert asked at length. "Two years ago; poor papa died in the south of France. You mustn't blame him too much, Rupert." "My dearest, we will talk of blaming no one. And Guy and May are married? I knew they would be." "Did you? I was so surprised when I read it in the _Times_; for you know May and I never corresponded--she was frantically angry with me. Do they know you are here?" "No; I rarely write, and I am constantly moving about; but I know Guy is very much beloved in St. Gosport. We will go back to England one of these days, my darling, and give them the greatest surprise they have received since Sir Guy Thetford learned who he really was." He smiled as he said it--the old bright smile she remembered so well. Tears of joy filled the beautiful, upturned eyes. "And you will go back? Oh, Rupert! it needed but this to complete my happiness!" He drew her closer, and then there was a long, delicious silence, whilst they watched together the late-rising moon climbing the misty hills above Castlemare. CHAPTER XVII. AT HOME. Another sunset, red and gorgeous, over swelling English meadows, waving trees, and grassy terrace, lighting up with its crimson radiance the gray forest of Thetford Towers. In the pretty, airy summer drawing-room, this red sunset streams through open western windows, kindling everything into living light. It falls on the bright-haired, girlish figure, dressed in floating white, seated in an arm-chair in the center of the room: too childish looking, you might fancy, at first sight, to be mamma to that fat baby she holds in her lap; but she is not a bit too childish. And that is papa, tall and handsome and happy, who leans over the chair and looks as men do look on what is the apple of their eye and the pride of their heart. "It is high time baby was christened, Guy," Lady Thetford--for, of course, Lady Thetford it is--was saying; "and, do you know, I'm really at a loss for a name. You won't let me call him Guy, and I shan't call him Noel--and so what is it to be?" "Rupert, of course," Sir Guy suggests; and little Lady Thetford pouts. "He doesn't deserve the compliment. Shabby fellow! To keep wandering about the world as he does, and never to answer one's letter; and I sent him half a ream last time, if I sent him a sheet, telling all about baby, and asking him to come and be godfather, and coaxing him with the eloquence of a female Demos--what-you-may-call-him. And to think it should be all of no use! To think of not receiving a line in return! It is using me shamefully, and I don't believe I will call baby Rupert." "Oh, yes you will, my dear! Well, Smithers, what is it?"