And now this telegram from Windyhill--“At home: come and see us”--_us_. Was it a mistake of the telegraph people?--of course they must make mistakes. They had no doubt taken the _me_ in Mrs. Dennistoun’s angular writing for _us_--or was it possible---- John had no peace in his mind until he had so managed matters that he could go and see. There was no very pressing business in the middle of January, when people had hardly yet recovered the idleness of Christmas. He started one windy afternoon, when everything was grey, and arrived at Hurrymere station in the dim twilight, still ruddy with tints of sunset. He was in a very contradictory frame of mind, so that though his heart jumped to see Mrs. Dennistoun awaiting him on the platform, there mingled in his satisfaction in seeing her and hearing what she had to tell so much sooner, a perverse conviction of cold and discomfort in the long drive up in the pony carriage which he felt sure was before him. He was mistaken, however, on this point, for the first thing she said was, “I have secured the fly, John. Old Pearson will take your luggage. I have so much to tell you.” There was an air of excitement in her face, but not that air of subdued and silent depression which comes with solitude. She was evidently full of the report she had to make; but yet the first thing she did when she was ensconced in the fly with John beside her was to cover her face with her hands, and subside into her corner in a silent passion of tears. “For mercy’s sake tell me what is the matter. What has happened? Is Elinor ill?” He had almost asked is Elinor dead? She uncovered her face, which had suddenly lighted up with a strange gleam of joy underneath the tears. “John, Elinor is here,” she said. “Here?” “At home--safe. I have brought her back--and the child.” “Confound the child!” John said in his excitement. “Brought her back! What do you mean?” “Oh, John, it is a long story. I have a hundred things to tell you, and to ask your advice upon; but the main thing is that she is here. I have brought her away from him. She will go back no more.” “She has left her husband?” he said, with a momentary flicker of exultation in his dismay. But the dismay, to do him justice, was the strongest. He looked at his companion almost sternly. “Things,” he said, “must have been very serious to justify that.” “They were more than serious--they had become impossible,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.