ingent waters of Nauheim had strengthened
her heart, so that it now beat with regular throbs, where formerly it
had fluttered feebly; they had brought the blood to the surface of the
skin, and had flushed her anaemic complexion with a roseate hue. Her eyes
were bright, her nerves steady, her step brisk; and she began to take
some interest in life, and in those around her. Lucy presented her
mother to the bishop with an unconcealed pride, which was surely
pardonable. 'There, papa,' she said proudly, while the bishop was lost
in wonder at this marvellous transformation. 'What do you think of my
patient now?'

'My dear, it is wonderful! The Nauheim spring is the true fountain of
youth.'

'A very prosaic fountain, I am afraid,' laughed Mrs Pendle; 'the
treatment is not poetical.'

'It is at least magical, my love. I must dip in these restorative waters
myself, lest I should be taken rather for your father than your--' Here
Dr Pendle, recollecting the falsity of the unspoken word, shut his mouth
with a qualm of deadly sickness--what the Scotch call a grue.

Mrs Pendle, however, observant rather of his looks than his words, did
not notice the unfinished sentence. 'You look as though you needed a
course,' she said anxiously; 'if I have grown younger, you have become
older. This is just what happens when I am away. You never can look
after yourself, dear.'

Not feeling inclined to spoil the first joy of reunion, Dr Pendle turned
aside this speech with a laugh, and postponed his explanation until a
more fitting moment. In the meantime, George and Gabriel and Harry were
hovering round the returned travellers with attentions and questions and
frequent congratulations. Mr Cargrim, who had been sulking ever since
the arrest of Mosk had overthrown his plans, was not present to spoil
this pleasant family party, and the bishop spent a golden hour or so of
unalloyed joy. But as the night wore on, this evanescent pleasure passed
away, and when alone with Mrs Pendle in her boudoir, he was so gloomy
and depressed that she insisted upon learning the cause of his
melancholy.

'There must be something seriously wrong, George,' she said earnestly;
'if there is, you need not hesitate to tell me.'

'Can you bear to hear the truth, Amy? Are you strong enough?'

'There _is_ something serious the matter, then?' cried Mrs Pendle, the
colour ebbing from her cheeks. 'What is it, George? Tell me at once. I
can bear anything but this suspense.