"Jack!"—he stretched out both hands. "We heard—You were not among the prisoners—" His voice stammered to a halt: his eyes brimmed.
"Come, and hear all about it. Oh, Dick, Dick, 'tis good to see your face again!"
They linked arms, and Dick suffered John to lead him back to the canoe among the rushes.
"My mother… ?" asked John, halting there by the brink.
"You haven't heard?" Dick turned his face and stared away across the river.
"I have heard nothing.… Is she dead?"
Dick bent his head gravely. "A year since.… Your brother Philip wrote the news to me. It was sudden: just a failure of the heart, he said. She had known of the danger for years, but concealed it."
John seated himself on the bank, and gazed out over the river for a minute or so in silence. "She believed me dead, of course?" he began, but did not ask how the blow had affected her. Likely enough Dick would not know. "Is there any more bad news?" he asked at length.
"None. Your brother is well, and there's another child born. The à Cleeves are not coming to an end just yet. No more questions, Jack, until you've told me all about yourself!"
He settled down to listen, and John, propping himself on an elbow, began his tale.