The marriage of the third son had been a much greater surprise. Compton Poynsett was not a family living; but the patron, hearing of Julius Charnock as a hard-working curate in a distant seaport, wrote to offer it to him; and the same letter to Mrs. Poynsett to offer it to him; and the same letter to Mrs Poynsett which conveyed this gratifying intelligence, also informed her of his having proposed to the daughter of the commanding officer of the regiment stationed at the town where lay his present charge. Her father enjoyed the barren honours of the Earldom of Rathforlane, an unimprovable estate in a remote corner of Ireland, burthened with successive families of numerous daughters, so that he was forced to continue in the service, and the marriage had been hastened by the embarkation of the regiment for India only two days later. The Rectory had, however, been found in such a state of dilapidation, that demolition was the only cure; and thus the Reverend Julius and Lady Rosamond Charnock were to begin their married life in the family home.

The two youngest sons, Francis and Charles, stood on the other side of a gap made by the loss of two infants, and were only twenty-one and nineteen. Frank had passed through Oxford with credit, and had been promised a Government office; while Charles was intended for the army; and both had been reading with a tutor who lived at Willansborough, and was continually employed in cramming, being reported of as the best ‘coach’ in the country. Charlie, however, had passed a week previously, and was to repair to Sandhurst in another fortnight.

At half-past four there was a light tap at Mrs. Poynsett’s door, and Charlie announced, “Here’s the first, mother!” as he brought in a gray-cloaked figure; and Mrs. Poynsett took a trembling hand, and bestowed a kiss on a cheek which had languor and exhaustion in the very touch.

“She was tired to death, mother,” said Charlie, “so we did not wait for the train.”

“Quite right!” and as the newcomer sank into the chair he offered—“My dear, you are sadly knocked up! You were hardly fit to come.”

“Thank you, I am quite well,” answered the fagged timid voice.

“Hark!” as the crash of a peal of bells came up. “Dear child, you will like to rest before any fresh introductions. You shall go to your room and have some tea there.”

“Thank you.”

“Charlie, call Susan.—She is my boys’ old nurse, now mine. Only tell me you have good accounts from my boy Miles.”

“Oh yes;” and the hand tightly clasped the closely-written letter for which the mother’s eyes felt hungry. “He sent you his love, and he will write to you next time. He was so busy, his first lieutenant was down in fever.”

“Where was he?”

“Off Zanzibar—otherwise the crew was healthy—the 12th of August,” she answered, squeezing out the sentences as if constrained by the mother’s anxious gaze.

“And he was quite well when you parted with him?”

“Quite.”

“Ah! you nursed my boy, and we must nurse you for him.”

“Thank you, I am quite well.” But she bit her lip, and spoke constrainedly, as if too shy and reserved to give way to the rush of emotion; but the coldness pained Mrs. Poynsett, whose expansiveness was easily checked; and a brief silence was followed by Charlie’s return to report that he could not find nurse, and thought she was out with the other servants, watching for the arrival; in another moment, the approaching cheers caused him to rush out; and after many more noises, showing the excitement of the multitude and the advance of the bridal pair, during which Mrs. Poynsett lay with deepening colour and clasped hands, her nostrils dilating with anxiety and suppressed eagerness, there entered a tall, dark, sunburnt man bringing on his arm a little, trim, upright, girlish figure; and bending down, he exclaimed, “There, mother, I’ve brought her—here’s your daughter!”

Two little gloved hands were put into hers, and a kiss exchanged, while Raymond anxiously inquired for his mother’s health; and she broke in by saying, “And here is Anne—Miles’s Anne, just arrived.”

“Ah, I did not see you in the dark,” said Raymond. “There, Cecil, is a sister for you—you never had one.”

Cecil was readier with greeting hand and cheek than was Anne, but at the same moment the tea equipage was brought in, and Cecil, quite naturally, and as a matter of course, began to preside over the low table, while Raymond took his accustomed chair on the further side of his mother’s sofa, where he could lean over the arm and study her countenance, while she fondled the hand that he had hung over the back. He was describing the welcome at the station, and all through the village—the triumphal arches and shouts.

“But how they did miss you, mother,” said Charlie. “Old Gurnet wrung my hand in tears as he said, ‘Yes, sir, ’tis very fine, but it beats the heart out of it that madam bain’t here to see.’”

“Good old Gurnet!” responded Raymond. “They are famously loyal. The J. C. P. crowned all above all the Cs and Rs, I was happy to see.”

“J. was for Julius—not Julia,” said the mother.

“No; J. H. C. and R. C. had a separate device of roses all to themselves. Hark! is that a cheer beginning again? Had we not better go into the drawing-room, mother? it will be so many for you all together.”

“Oh no, I must see you all.”

The brothers hurried out with their welcome; and in another minute, a plump soft cheek was pressed to the mother’s, devouring kisses were hailed on her, and a fuller sweeter tone than had yet been heard answered the welcome.

“Thank you. So kind! Here’s Julius! I’ll not be in your way.”

“Dearest mother, how is it with you?” as her son embraced her. “Rose has been longing to be with you.”

“And we’ve all come together! How delicious!” cried Rosamond, enfolding Anne in her embrace; “I didn’t know you were come!—See, Julius!”

But as Julius turned, a startled look came over Anne’s face; and she turned so white, that Rosamond exclaimed, “My dear—what—she’s faint!” And while Cecil stood looking puzzled, Rosamond had her arm round the trembling form, and disappeared with her, guided and assisted by Nurse Susan.

“Isn’t she—?” exclaimed Julius, in a voice of triumph that made all smile.

“Full of sweet kindness,” said Mrs. Poynsett; “but I have only seen and heard her yet, my dear Julius. Susan will take her to her room—my old one.”

“Oh, thank you, mother,” said Julius, “but I hardly like that; it seems like your giving it up.”

“On the contrary, it proves that I do not give it up, since I put in temporary lodgers like you.—Now Cecil is housed as you preferred, Raymond—in the wainscot-rooms.”

“And where have you put that poor Mrs. Miles?” asked Raymond. “She looks quite knocked up.”

“Yes, she has been very ill on the voyage, and waited at Southampton to gather strength for the journey.—I am so grateful to your good Rose, Julius.—Why, where is the boy? Vanished in her wake, I declare!”

“His venerable head is quite turned,” said Frank. “I had to get inside alone, and let them drive home outside together to avoid separation.”

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