And where was Tom Thurnall all the while? No man could tell.
Mark inquired; Lord Minchampstead inquired; great personages inquired; but all in vain. A few knew, and told Lord Minchampstead, who told Mark, in confidence, that he had been heard of last in the Circassian Mountains about Christmas 1854; but since then all was blank.
The old man never seemed to regret him; and never mentioned his name after a while. None knew it was because he and Grace never talked of anything else. So they had lived, and so they had waited.
And now it is the blessed Christmas Eve; the light is failing fast; when down the High Street comes Mark's portly bulk. The next minute he has entered the old doctor's house, and is full of the afternoon's run, for he has been out fox-hunting.
The old doctor is confident to-day that his son will return, and Grace reassures him.
"Yes, he is coming soon to us," she half whispers, leaning over the old man's chair. "Or else we are soon going to him. It may mean that, sir. Perhaps it is better that it should."
"It matters little, child, if he be near, as near he is."
And sure enough while Mark is telling of the good run he has had, Tom's fresh voice is heard. Yes! There he was in bodily flesh and blood; thin, sallow, bearded to the eyes, dressed in ragged sailor's clothes.
Grace uttered a long, soft, half laughing cry, full of the delicious agony of sudden relief; and then slipped from the room past the unheeding Tom, who had no eyes but for his father. Straight up to the old man he went, took both his hands, and spoke in the old, cheerful voice.