ck, Miles, you can't now--you know my
room--"

He signed acquiescence, but lingered in the dark to look down and
see how, though Rosamond had waited to spare them this reception,
his wife's tall graceful figure came forward, and her kindly
comforting gestures, as the two sisters-in-law took the newcomer
into the drawing-room, and in another minute Anne flitted up to him
again. "That good Rosamond is seeing to Mr. Charnock," she said;
"will you come, Miles? I think it will do your mother good; only
quietly, for Frank knows nothing."

Mrs. Poynsett still sat by Frank. To Miles's eyes he was a fearful
spectacle, but to Anne there was hourly progress; the sunken
dejected look was gone, and though there was exhaustion, there was
rest; but he was neither sleeping nor waking, and showed no heed
when his brother dropped on one knee by his mother's side, put an
arm round her waist, and after one fervent kiss laid his black head
on her lap, hiding his face there while she fondled his hair, and
said, "Frank, Frankie dear, here's Miles come home." He did not
seem to hear, only his lips murmured something like 'Anne,' and the
tender hand and ready touch of his unwearied nurse at once fulfilled
his need, while his mother whispered, "Miles, she is our blessing!"

Poor Miles! Never had sailor a stranger, though some may have had
an even sadder, return. He had indeed found his wife, but hers was
the only hand that could make Frank swallow the sustenance that he
needed every half-hour, or who knew how to relieve him. Indeed,
even the being together in the sick-room was not long possible, for
Anne was called to the door. Mr. Charnock was asking to see Mrs.
Poynsett. Would Mrs. Miles come and speak to him?

Mr. Charnock was a small and restless man with white hair, little
black eyes, looking keener than they were, and a face which had
evidently been the mould of Cecil's. He was very kind, with a full
persuasion that the consolations of his august self must be
infallible; but this was coupled with an inclination to reprove
everybody for the fate that had left his cherished darling a
childless widow at two-and-twenty. To take him to Frank's room was
impossible, and he had to be roundly told so. Neither had he seen
his daughter. She was very weak, but recovering, and Grindstone,
whom he had seen and talked with, was as strenuous in deprecating
any excitement as he was nervous about it. So he could only be
disposed of in hi