‘Let us run to the Cottage for five minutes, and see mamma,’ said Mary, as they made their way back. ‘Fancy, Ben, she does not know you have come home!’ ‘Shall we have time?’ Ben asked, making for the bank as he spoke. The path that led to the Cottage struck off from the river-side above The Willows. And it was always gaining time to make this little diversion. He had been so silent, saying nothing,--and a sense of disappointment had crept over Mary after the intense sympathy with which she felt she had been entering into all his thoughts. But when he thrust the boat into the flowery bank, and helped her to jump out, Ben replied to her, though she had said nothing. ‘You are quite right,’ he said. ‘It is best in every way not to meet them again.’ ‘Ben! I did not say a word----’ ‘No,’ he answered, ‘you did not, and it was very, very kind of you, Mary. I am more obliged to you than I can say. There are some things which it is impossible to talk about. I thank you with all my heart.’ What did this mean? Mary was accustomed to a great deal of talk about everything,--more talk than meaning, indeed. And she was a little bewildered by this absence of all explanation. She would have been comforted had he opened up a little and told her how it all was. But she submitted, of course, concluding it was his mannish, unsatisfactory way. And as they went hurriedly up the lane, in the kindness of her heart she slid her hand through Ben’s arm. It was the softest, kindly touch, such as his sister’s hand might have given. Was not she his sister, nearer to him than any one else, and, little as she did understand, yet knowing more of what was in his heart,--she thought,--than any other creature in the world? And Ben was not indifferent to that mute token of sympathy. He drew the timid hand closely through his arm. ‘My good little Mary!’ he said; but even then he said no more. No explanation came, whatever she might do or say, which was hard, but had to be borne. And this is how it was that Mrs. Westbury, to her very great amazement, saw her daughter and Ben Renton approaching the Cottage arm-in-arm,--‘like an engaged couple,’ she said afterwards,--which gave her a curious thrill of admiration and satisfaction at the first glance. When her nephew came up to her, however, nature prevailed, and the recollection of her own agency, which nobody but herself believed in, in sending all the boys away. ‘Ben!’ she cried, and then kissed him, and held both his hands, and shed some tears of surprise and joy, ‘I am so glad to see you! I cannot tell how glad I am to see you! Have you all come home?’ ‘Only I,’ said Ben; ‘but the others are coming, and Mary and I have come to fetch you, Aunt Lydia, to dine with my mother. She does not understand my noise and uncouthness, after the long spell of quiet she has had. After dinner Mary and I will bring you back.’