Daniel Walthew neither spoke of Mark nor allowed any other person to mention his name.
In his heart he must have felt for the sorrow of his faithful wife, for he did not hinder her from receiving letters; and he knew that the tidings they brought must be good by the glad light on her face, though tears often accompanied it—tears because her husband did not share her joy.
Mr. Mitcheson still transacted Daniel's legal business, found new investments for his hoards, and made out deeds when some fresh purchase was completed. But he felt equal pity and indignation at the sight of his self-willed client, and his inability to value the good gift bestowed on him in the shape of his talented and worthy son.
Years passed on. Mark did wonders, and his friends rejoiced that his career had more than fulfilled their most sanguine expectations.
He was at Claybury, the honoured guest of the headmaster of the old school, and his name was mentioned in the columns of the principal local papers. Copies of these came to Mrs. Walthew, who, entering the kitchen gently, found her husband eagerly reading the paragraphs relating to his boy.
At sight of her, he angrily thrust the paper between the bars and saw it burn to ashes. But his wife had caught the expression on his face as he read, and thanked God for this, as for a ray of light and hope.
"He is not so hard as he seems," she said to herself. And this she not only thought, but told her son in a letter, written in a cramped hand and imperfectly spelled, but which the youth kissed—soft-hearted fellow that he was—because it came from that dear unselfish mother whom he had only seen very rarely for seven long years.
He was turned four-and-twenty, tall, straight, and healthy, despite hard brain work, for he had lived temperately, taken outdoor exercises, and not "burned the candle at both ends."
There was a fair face that lighted at his coming—a warm, loving heart that did not try to hide its gladness, when, at an evening gathering at the headmaster's house, in honour of his old pupil, Dolly Mitcheson's hand was clasped in that of Mark Walthew.
Dorothy was twenty-two now, and for years past she and Mark had known that each held the first place in the other's heart. Friends—adopted brother and sister!—these might be and were sweet relationships; but that which subsisted now was nearer and dearer still.