“Oh! my goodness, gracious me!”
“Yes, Helen Perowne it is, my dears,” said the little doctor, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “I think I found Solomon’s Ophir this time, eh?”
“Henry!—Henry!” panted Mrs Bolter; “what does this mean?”
“Mean? That you haven’t given me a kiss, my dear! Never mind the company. That’s better,” he cried, as he took the kiss—audibly.
“But you don’t explain, Henry.”
“Explain, my dear,” said the doctor, softly, as he pointed to where Helen lay with her face buried in Grey Stuart’s breast. “Nothing to explain; only that I was up one of the rivers and found the lost one here before the expedition came. But didn’t I say so, Stuart, old fellow? It was Murad, after all.”
A low moan from Helen made Mrs Bolter dart towards her.
“Oh! my child, my child! and to come back to us like this!” cried Mrs Bolter, helping Grey to place Helen upon the couch, the tears running down her cheeks the while; and all dislike to the station beauty seeming to have passed away as she took the swarthy head to her bosom, and knelt there, rocking herself softly to and fro.
“Can we do anything to help, doctor?” said old Stuart, in a whisper.
“No: let ’em all have a good cry together. Nature’s safety valve, old fellow,” said the doctor, coolly.