The woman saw, with her experienced eyes, that something more than could be read on the surface was in this family combination. She put them gently from the bedside, and shaded the patient’s eyes from the light, for it was nearly noon by this time, and everything was brilliant outside. The corridor, however, into which they passed outside was still dark, as it was always, the glimmering pale reflections in the wainscot of the long narrow window on the staircase being its sole communication with the day. Mary put out her hands to her brother as they emerged from the sick-room. “Is it you--you, John?” “Yes,” he said, grasping them, “it is I. I do not wonder you are startled--I heard my father was worse--that there was a change--and came in without warning. So Nello has been sent away? May I see my little girl? You have been good to her, I am sure, Mary.” “I love her,” said Mary, hastily, “as if she were my own. John, do not take my little companion away.” He had been grave enough, and but little moved hitherto by the meeting, which was not so strange or unlooked-for to him as to them. Now his countenance beamed suddenly, lighting all over, and a tender moisture came to his eyes. “It is what I have desired most for her,” he said, and took his sister’s hands again and kissed her cheek. “But send for my little Lily,” he added, with an indescribable softening in his voice. Here Miss Brown, who had been following, came out from the dusk of the room behind. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I did not like to tell you in your trouble; but I’m very uneasy about Miss Lily.” “Has she never come in yet? You said she had gone out for a walk.” “I said whatever I could think of to save you, Miss Mary. We none of us know where she’s gone. I’ve sent everywhere. She is not at the Vicarage, nor she’s not at the village; and--oh, what will Mr. John think of us?” cried the woman in tears. “Not one in the house has seen her since yesterday, and Martuccia, she’s breaking her heart. She says Miss Lily has gone after her brother; she says----” “Is Martuccia here?” “Yes, sir,” said Miss Brown, with a curtsey. She could not take her eyes off him, as she afterwards said. More serious, far more serious than when he was a young gentleman always about the house, but the same man--still the same man. “Then send her to me at once. It is you, Martha, the same as ever,” he said, with a momentary smile in the midst of his anxiety. Just as Mr. John used to do--always a kind word for everybody and a smile. She made him another curtsey, crying and smiling together.