Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for his
heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's
part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about
that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the
widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago.

"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. "I
thought you might come."

"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from
Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so
that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing that
his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and
remained at a distance.

"You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said.

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage
ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement
was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been
out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor
in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars
of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn:
not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the
theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter
than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but
none so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now no
more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and
that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly
cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity.
What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the
dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her
son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took
his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of
reconciliation....

"And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord.
"Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is
a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"

"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in her
sweet low tone, as they walked