"Nothing yet," said Sir Denzil to Eager, on his twentieth anxious call after further news of the boys. "I am surprised Denzil has not written. But so many things may happen out there. His letter may have gone astray. There may be difficulty in communicating with Sebastopol. He may be wounded himself. He may be dead. We can do nothing but wait. I will send you word the moment I have any news. Miss Gracie well?"
"Quite well, sir, but sorely troubled about the boys."
"Ay, ay! That is the woman's part--to sit at home and nurse her fears."
"No news, Charlie?" asked the Little Lady hopelessly, from her chair by the fire.
"No news yet, dear. Sir Denzil promises to send round the moment he gets anything."
"I'm beginning to fear they're all lying dead in that horrible Crimea. This waiting, waiting, waiting, is terrible."
"Yes, it's hard work, the hardest work in the world. But we can only wait and hope, dear. Whatever is is best, and we cannot alter it."
It was a weary time for all of them, and all over Britain and France and Russia the same black cloud lay heavily. The only ones who were happy were those whose warriors had come home maimed, so long as the maiming was not absolute and irretrievable. For such were at all events safe from further harm.
So the slow dark days dragged on until at length one night, when Eager had just got in from his rounds and the usual fruitless call at Carne, there came the long-expected knock on the door, and Gracie ran to answer it.
"Is it you, Kennet?"