Gordon leapt up the steps and into the house as one who was at home, and going first into the shaded drawing-room he found his mother on the couch looking to the sunset and the Nile—a sweet old lady in the twilight of life, with white hair, a thin face almost as white, and the pale smile of a patient soul who had suffered pain. With her, attending upon her, and at that moment handing a cup of chicken broth to her, was a stout Egyptian woman with a good homely countenance—Gordon’s old nurse, Fatimah. His mother turned at the sound of his voice, roused herself on the couch, and with that startled cry of joy which has only one note in all nature, that of a mother meeting her beloved son, she cried, "Gordon! Gordon!" and clasped her delicate hands about his neck. Before he could prevent it, his foster-mother, too, muttering in Eastern manner, "O my eye! O my soul!" had snatched one of his hands and was smothering it with kisses. "And how is Helena?" his mother asked, in her low, sweet voice. "Beautiful!" said Gordon. "She couldn’t help being that. But why doesn’t she come to see me?" "I think she’s anxious about her father’s health, and is afraid to leave him," said Gordon; and then Fatimah, with blushes showing through her Arab skin, said— "Take care! a house may hold a hundred men, but the heart of a woman has only room for one of them." "Ah, but Helena’s heart is as wide as a well, mammy," said Gordon; whereupon Fatimah said— "That’s the way, you see! When a young man is in love there are only two sort of girls in the world—ordinary girls and his girl." At that moment, while the women laughed, Gordon heard his father’s deep voice in the hall saying, "Bid good-bye to my wife before you go, Reg," and then the Consul-General, with "Here’s Gordon also," came into the drawing-room, followed by Sir Reginald Mannering, Sirdar of the Egyptian army and Governor of the Soudan, who said— "Splendid, my boy! Not forgotten your first fight, I see! Heavens, I felt as if I was back at Omdurman and wanted to get at the demons again." "Gordon," said the Consul-General, "see His Excellency to the door and come to me in the library;" and when the Sirdar was going out at the porch he whispered— "Go easy with the Governor, my boy. Don’t let anything cross him. Wonderful man, but I see a difference since I was down last year. Bye-bye!" Gordon found his father writing a letter, with his _kawas_ Ibrahim, in green caftan and red waistband, waiting by the side of the desk, in the library, a plain room, formal as an office, being walled with bookcases full of Blue Books, and relieved by two pictures only—a portrait of his mother when she was younger than he could remember to have seen her, and one of himself when he was a child and wore an Arab fez and slippers. "The General—the Citadel," said the Consul-General, giving his letter to Ibrahim; and as soon as the valet was gone he wheeled his chair round to Gordon and began—