[Illustration: ‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’] “Good night, Professor, good night!” And Bruno solemnly shook hands with the old man, who gazed at him with a loving smile, while Sylvie bent down to press her sweet lips upon his forehead. “Good night, little ones!” said the Professor. “You may leave me now—to ruminate. I’m as jolly as the day is long, except when it’s necessary to ruminate on some very difficult subject. All of me,” he murmured sleepily as we left the room, “all of me, that isn’t _Bonhommie_, is Rumination!” “_What_ did he say, Bruno?” Sylvie enquired, as soon as we were safely out of hearing. “I _think_ he said ‘All of me that isn’t Bone-disease is Rheumatism.’ Whatever _are_ that knocking, Sylvie?” Sylvie stopped, and listened anxiously. It sounded like some one kicking at a door. “I _hope_ it isn’t that Porcupine breaking loose!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go on!” Bruno said hastily. “There’s nuffin to wait for, oo know!“ CHAPTER XXV LIFE OUT OF DEATH. The sound of kicking, or knocking, grew louder every moment: and at last a door opened somewhere near us. “Did you say ‘come in!’ Sir?” my landlady asked timidly. “Oh yes, come in!” I replied. “What’s the matter?” “A note has just been left for you, Sir, by the baker’s boy. He said he was passing the Hall, and they asked him to come round and leave it here.” The note contained five words only. “Please come at once. Muriel.” A sudden terror seemed to chill my very heart. “The Earl is ill!” I said to myself. “Dying, perhaps!” And I hastily prepared to leave the house. “No bad news, Sir, I hope?” my landlady said, as she saw me out. “The boy said as some one had arrived unexpectedly——.” “I hope that is it!” I said. But my feelings were those of fear rather than of hope: though, on entering the house, I was somewhat reassured by finding luggage lying in the entrance, bearing the initials “E. L.” “It’s only Eric Lindon after all!” I thought, half relieved and half annoyed. “Surely she need not have sent for me for _that_!” Lady Muriel met me in the passage. Her eyes were gleaming—but it was the excitement of joy, rather than of grief. “I have a surprise for you!” she whispered. “You mean that Eric Lindon is here?” I said, vainly trying to disguise the involuntary bitterness of my tone. “‘_The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage-tables_,’” I could not help repeating to myself. How cruelly I was misjudging her! “No, no!” she eagerly replied. “At least—Eric _is_ here. But——,” her voice quivered, “but there is _another_!” No need for further question. I eagerly followed her in. There on the bed, he lay—pale and worn—the mere shadow of his old self—my old friend come back again from the dead! “Arthur!” I exclaimed. I could not say another word.