"Yes; Marion expected them to spend a year with her, and, after that, they would return; for her father and mother had many interests and occupations in Southern Africa which they would not wish to give up."

"Interests and occupations!"--the d.u.c.h.ess yawned, and begged Mr Ormsby to find her carriage, and "was glad the ball was over; but it was marked by one pleasant fact, that of meeting Marion, the daughter of her old friend."

They shook hands cordially.

"Who on earth is the d.u.c.h.ess of M--shaking hands with so heartily?" said the member's wife.

"Mrs Ormsby, of Ormsby Park."

"Oh! yes; the uncle is dead, and has left young Ormsby seven thousand a year, has he not?"

"Nine, they say," replied the other speaker.

"Dear me, how fortunate!--his wife is pretty, rather; I should like to know her."

Summer was dying in all her pomp, the woods of Ormsby were arrayed in their mantles of green and gold and crimson and rich brown; the shadows from the old oaks were lengthening on the gra.s.s, when the lodge-gates were thrown open to admit the carriage which had been sent to Portsmouth to meet the voyagers from Kafirland.

A touch of the old ambitious feeling thrilled through Mrs Daveney's heart, as the elegant equipage swept along the n.o.ble aisles of horse-chestnut trees and beeches, through which the mansion, with windows illuminated by the setting sun, showed fair and stately.

But Eleanor's face was opposite, revealing its mournful history of past suffering. It had lost its look of anxiety, and something like pleasure shone in the large dark orbs as they caught sight of Marion's home, and her sister and husband, with Marmion between them, in the open doorway, waving their handkerchiefs.

Who thought that, instead of an embowered porch, rudely built and thatched with rushes, they now met beneath the stately colonnade of a n.o.ble mansion!

Oh! those precious meetings, when the sea has long divided us.

The cultivated lands of England! the fields crowded with reapers! the heavily-laden wains--women and youths and children singing along the roads, as if rejoicing in the plentiful harvest; the n.o.ble woods, stretching afar, and glowing in the mellow light of autumn!--all contributed to bring repose to Eleanor's soul. She lived a new life-- she seemed to begin a new career in a new world. Here she was indeed at peace--no fearful storms, no savage war-cry, no dread of an enemy stalking in and making desolate the hearth! The s.p.a.ce between her and the past seemed suddenly widened.

Sir Adrian and Lady Amabel were of the party; there were no strangers-- neighbours there were none within five miles.

The events of former years were scarcely ever alluded to; Marion's twins were painfully like their little cousin buried in the African desert; but no one spoke of him. The children lived almost in Eleanor's room.

One evening, after she had gone upstairs to dress for dinner, these little creatures detained her till the second bell rang. Her hair was hanging over her dressing-gown, and, finding that she could not possibly be in time, she ran to Marion to say she would join the little circle at tea.

"Marion! Marion!"--but Marion had gone. Ormsby's study door was open; there was a light within! She called to him--no answer.

The children ran up to her; they threw the door wide open; two wax-lights were burning on the table, and before the fire stood Frankfort.

And for the first time for many long years Eleanor uttered a cry of joy.

She forgot that she was in her dressing-gown, that her hair hung disordered about her, that the children were half-frightened at the sight of a stranger.

Frankfort opened his arms again to her--

"Never again to part, Eleanor," said he.

"Never, never," she answered.

He strained her to his breast, and her tears of unutterable joy mingled with his kisses.

"Nurse--nurse Abbot, here is Aunty crying, and a strange gentleman kissing her. Oh! nurse, do come here."

But nurse Abbot drew the twins from the corridor into their nursery, and kept them there as long as she thought proper.

When Colonel Frankfort had been married a year or two, people who had been mystified about Mrs Lyle's widowhood forgot everything but that she was the sweetest and gentlest and most, lowly-mannered lady they had ever seen. The old air of melancholy was so habitual to her, she would have been less charming without it. The sisters were near neighbours during half the year, and for one month in their lives were united with all their South African friends; for the Daveneys paid another visit to England, and the Trails accompanied them. May and Fitje and Ellen were on the establishment; Mr Trail had brought them home as honest and rare specimens of what Christianity had done for South Africa. Gray and Amayeka--we never _can_ call her Mrs Gray--were left in charge of school and pupils, and did their duty well in the good teacher's absence.

Sir Adrian Fairfax himself examined the register in the old church in Cornwall, and finding that the death of the curate's daughter preceded Sir John Manvers's second marriage, he never revealed the sad history of Sir John's earlier years.

Not long since, I saw two charming pictures of the sisters in the exhibition of the Royal Academy. They were in the characters of Day and Night. I recognised them, though they were not mentioned by name in the catalogue. Marion stood in the sunlight, with a smile on her face and the glow of summer on her azure scarf. Eleanor was seated in the shade of twilight, with the sea in the distance, and a star rising over her head and irradiating her pale and thoughtful brow.

Were her thoughts wandering over those shining depths to the wilderness where her boy lay buried far from any kindred?

I heard a deep sigh behind me as I stood contemplating these sweet portraits. I turned, and recognised in the somewhat roue-looking young man behind me Clarence Fairfax. A celebrated _danseuse_ of the day hung upon his arm, but she was too much occupied with another admirer to notice his abstracted gaze.

I hope Eleanor did not meet this idol of her former fancy. I saw her five minutes after with her husband and sister. Her veil was down, and I could only hear the music of her gentle and cordial salutation. And then, as exciting intelligence from Southern Africa was filling the papers of the day, she asked, "Is there any news from Kafirland?"

THE END.