“Yes, as you return, sir; an answer that you will think emanated from our Irish friend. No one ever yet went to Antwerp without giving the fine old town a few hours’ inspection. I only wish the chance were offered me! Now, on your way there, you will not be able to get about; but, as you return, you will--if all the good has been done you that I anticipate.” “Do not be too sanguine, Hamish.” “My dear father,” and Hamish’s tone assumed a deeper feeling, “to be sanguine was implanted in my nature, at my birth: but in this case I am more than sanguine. You will be cured, depend upon it. When you return, in three months’ time, I shall not have a fly waiting for you at the station here, or if I do, it will be for the mother’s exclusive use and benefit; I shall parade you through the town on my arm, showing your renewed strength of leg and limb to the delighted eyes of Helstonleigh.” “Why are you so silent?” Mrs. Channing inquired of William Yorke. She had suddenly noticed that he had scarcely said a word; had sat in a fit of abstraction since his entrance. “Silent? Oh! Hamish is talking for all of us,” he answered, starting from his reverie. “The ingratitude of some people!” ejaculated Hamish. “Is he saying that in a spirit of complaint, now? Mr. Yorke, I am astonished at you.” At this moment Tom was heard to enter the house. That it could be no one but Tom was certain, by the noise and commotion that arose; the others were quieter, except Annabel, and she was a girl. Tom came in, tongue, hands, and feet all going together. “What luck, is it not, Mr. Yorke? I am so glad it has been given to you!” Mr. Channing looked up in surprise. “Tom, you will never learn manners! What has been given?” “Has he not told you?” exclaimed Tom, ignoring the reproof to his manners. “He is appointed to Hazeldon Chapel. Where’s Constance? I’ll be bound he has told _her_!” Saucy Tom! They received his news in silence, looking to Mr. Yorke for explanation. He rose from his chair, and his cheek slightly flushed as he confirmed the tidings. “Does Constance know it?” inquired Mrs. Channing, speaking in the moment’s impulse. “Yes,” was Mr. Yorke’s short answer. And then he said something, not very coherently, about having an engagement, and took his leave, wishing Mr. Channing every benefit from his journey. “But, we do not go until the day after to-morrow,” objected Mr. Channing. “We shall see you before that.” Another unsatisfactory sentence from Mr. Yorke, that he “was not sure.” In shaking hands with Mrs. Channing he bent down with a whisper: “I think Constance has something to say to you.” Mrs. Channing found her in her room, in a sad state of distress. “Child! what is this?” she uttered. “Oh! mother, mother, it is all at an end, and we have parted for ever!” was poor Constance’s wailing answer. And Mrs. Channing, feeling quite sick with the various troubles that seemed to be coming upon her, inquired _why_ it was at an end.