The next fortnight passes slowly. Then came a letter from Oswald to Sir Donald. Under advice of his physician, he will wait another week before starting homeward. His passage is already engaged, and he gives the ship's name, with date when it will leave New York Harbor. After arrival at Southampton, he will visit his parents, and then at Northfield. Some pleasant things were written about anticipated reunions, and the letter closed with wish for remembrance to Esther, Alice Webster, and Charles Randolph.
There is regret at this waiting, but all approve Oswald's doing as advised by the physician.
Alice and Charles are not pensive over any delays. In conscious adjustment to the happy present, neither past nor future clouds their clear, sunlighted skies. Both feel that their lives soon will blend. Before that expected proposal neither doubted its utterance or acceptance. It came as easily as come responsive, happy greetings from eager lips and lustrous eyes. There is no doubt of that uncle's approval, but the nuptial ceremony can abide his return from Calcutta.
The next day after this betrothal came another letter from Oswald to Sir Donald, telling of his safe arrival at Southampton. He will visit his parents, and in three days from that date be at Northfield.
All experience a sense of expectant pleasure. Sir Donald feels that past worries are receding into waning retrospect. Charles is happy in his own right. Alice longs for a sight of that Thames resurrection while looking into the handsome face then smiling its admiration of her own. Bessie--well, this little fair-haired "find" says all sorts of pretty, indiscreet things, interrupts tête-à-têtes, intrudes upon conferences, artlessly domineers over everybody, closing each day's performances by going to sleep upon the arm of Sir Donald.
Without mishap Oswald reaches Southampton. The ocean voyage had been pleasant, and he feels buoyantly hopeful. He is impatient for the home reunion with father and mother. Anticipating their glad surprise at his safe return, Oswald pauses at the familiar portal out of which he had fled a disguised fugitive years before. He hesitates, then rings the bell. The door is opened, and his father looks inquiringly. There is glad recognition, and the rector leads his son to a chair, but both remain standing. Looking tearfully upward, the father holds Oswald's hand and says nothing. Both fix their eyes upon a new oil portrait. Sinking into a chair, Oswald whispers: