It was not till about four o’clock in the afternoon that Gervase came. She had pictured him in so many aspects of excitement--angry, harassed, exasperated, impatient, despairing--that it was almost a disappointment to her to see him walk in very much like himself--a little more grave than usual perhaps, but perfectly self-possessed and calm. He even paused to speak to the elderly visitor with whom she was hurriedly shaking hands, anxious only to get her away. Gervase said to Mrs Brown that he was glad to see her, and asked for her sons and her daughters, companions of his childhood, while Madeline stood tingling, not knowing how to bear the suspense. He walked down to the door with that old woman! leaving her almost beside herself with desire to know what had happened. He came up-stairs again in quite a leisurely way, not taking three steps at a time as she had seen him do. “Well?” she said, meeting him at the head of the stairs. It was true he put his arm round her to lead her back to the room, but he did not satisfy her anxiety. “Well?” he said. “No, I don’t think it is well, nor ill either, perhaps; it is nothing--it is a compromise.” “But, Gervase, in the state things had got to, that _is_ well,” she cried, drawing a long breath, “the best we could hope for. Was it papa!” “I can’t tell you, Madeline. He is in it somehow, but in what way I don’t exactly know. I think my father had determined upon it before he appeared.” He had led her to her seat, and placed her in it, and seated himself beside her; but he did not seem to have any desire to say more. “You forget you have not told me what it is, Gervase.” “No; I feel as if it were mere aggravation, without any meaning in it. I am to be sent away again.” “To be sent away!” She, too, felt as if it did not much matter what the new arrangement was. “Not, as before, for mere experience’ sake. This time I have got a definite piece of work to do. They say I need not be more than three months gone.” “Three months!” She looked at him with eyes full of dismay, and he returned the gaze with the blank look of a discouraged certainty beyond appeal. “Yes,” he said; “it’s a poor thing to have to accept, after all we’ve been thinking of. But, I suppose, it will have to be done whether we like or not.” “It could not be papa!” cried Madeline, with tears springing to her eyes. “I can’t tell; I think my father had decided upon it before. It is supposed to be a test whether I have really scruples (which they laugh at), or am merely idle, which is what they believe. I tell them to take the worst view--to say I am merely idle. I am, for that matter.” “No, Gervase; not if you had worthy work to do----”