A sulky winter came hard upon November, and the war of armies was succeeded by the war of diplomats.
One day in January the same vehicle that had driven Selwyn to Roselawn deposited another visitor there. He was a sturdy, well-set-up fellow, but a thinness and a certain pallor in the cheeks conflicted with their natural weather-beaten texture.
The morose driver helped him to alight, and handed him his crutches, which he took with a snort of disapproval. He made his way at a dignified pace around the drive, pausing en route to look at the gables and wings of Roselawn as one who returns to familiar scenes after a long absence.
Without encountering any one he reached the stables, and opening a door, mounted the stairs that led to the dwelling-quarters above.
There was no one in the cosy dining-room, and sitting down, he hammered the floor with his crutch. The homely sound of dishes being washed ceased suddenly in the adjoining room, and Mrs. Mathews threw open the door.
'Who is it?' she cried.
'Me,' said Mathews.
Uttering a pious exclamation that reflected both doubt and confidence in the all-wise workings of Providence, his wife fell heavily upon him, with strong symptoms of hysteria.
'Heavenly hope!' she cried, after her exuberance permitted of speech; 'so you've come home?'
'I hev,' said her husband solemnly; 'and I'm werry pleased to observe you so fit, m'dear. Is the offspring a-takin' his oats reg'lar?'