me to him--a letter from India. He
tore it open eagerly enough, but how little he knew what it contained! It
was from his mother, and she wrote to tell her boy that Mr. Vivyan's time
had now ended, so nothing hindered their return to England, and even now,
by the time this letter arrived, they would be on their way home. It was
hurriedly written, as she was busy preparing for the voyage, so there was
little more said in it than was necessary; but Arthur's heart gave a quick
response as he read the words: "And God only knows the great joy He has in
store for me in giving me back my darling Arthur."

Was it _really_ true? Arthur could scarcely believe it, that the long
thought of and yearned for time was indeed so near. How often in his fancy
he had tried to picture to himself that meeting, and to imagine what his
feelings would be, and now it was coming so soon. He felt almost a little
stunned at first, it was so sudden; but he was very, very happy, and very
thankful to his Father in heaven for giving him this joy.

It was not long before Mrs. Estcourt came down. Her face showed that she
already knew the good news, for she had a letter that morning too, and she
met Arthur, who came eagerly to greet her, with a fond, sympathising
embrace. "Oh, Arthur," she said, "I am _so_ glad for you." His aunt then
told him, during the course of breakfast, that they expected the ship
would probably reach England in about a week from this time, and they
would come direct to Myrtle Hill, where they would stay a little while.

It was some days after this, when Arthur had hardly got over the first
excitement, that another letter arrived. This time the post-mark was
Southampton. They were in England, and hoped to be at Mrs. Estcourt's
house the following day. What a long and wearisome morning the next was!
for, as I dare say every one knows, time always passes slowly when we are
expecting or waiting for anything. Mrs. Vivyan had said in her letter,
that the train by which they intended to come arrived at about five
o'clock. The day could not have been more lovely; it was a soft, bright,
early summer's evening, and the country around Myrtle Hill looked very
beautiful in the mellow sunlight; the trees which surrounded the house
cast long, dark shadows on the green sloping lawn, and rustled gently as
the breeze stirred amongst them. Arthur was out there watching and
listening for the sound of carriage wheels, and though the time seemed to
him