Ld fogies see that we are friends," he said, in his remembered
playful vein. It was in the long dark drawing-room that she had seen
him for the

first time since her flight into the wilderness. He had come in,
grave, yet with something blithe and unperturbed in his bearing that,
as she stood waiting for what he might say to her, seemed the very
nimbus of chivalry.
He was splendid to look at, too, tall and strong with clear kind eyes
and clear kind smile. She could not speak, not even when he came and
took her hand, and said: "Well Amabel." And then, seeing how white she
was and how she trembled, he had bent his head and kissed her

hand. And at that she had broken into tears;
but they were tears of joy. He stood beside her
while she wept, her hands before her face, just touching
her shoulder with a paternal hand, and she heard him saying: "Poor
little Amabel: poor little girl." She took
her chair beside
the table and for a long time she kept her face hidden: "Thank you;
thank you;" was all that she could say. "My dear, what for?--There,
don't cry.--You
have stopped crying? There, poor child. I've been awfully sorry for
you." He would not let her try to say how good
he was, and this was a relief, for she knew that she could not put it
into words and that, without words, he understood. He even laughed a
little, with a graceful embarrassment, at her speechless
gratitude. And presently, when they talked, she could put down her
hand, could look round
at him, while she answered that, yes,

she was very comfortable at Charlock House; yes, no place could
suit her more perfectly; yes,
Mrs. Bray was very kind. And he talked a little about business
with her, explaining that Bertram's death had left him with a
great deal of management on his hands; he must have her signature
to papers, and all this was done with the easiest tact so that
naturalness and simplicity should grow between
them; so

that, in finding pe