THE DEAR GIRL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "BELLA DONNA," "NEVER
FORGOTTEN," &c.
CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD HOME.

MR. WEST, far away in England, read the
account of the terrible storm at Dieppe, which
later, indeed, travelled up some of the finest parts
of the French country, unroofing houses, scattering
produce, swelling rivers, and doing other
mischief.  All this, with the details of the
gallant rescue, was duly set out in the vivacious
Galignani—most pleasant of caterers, unwearied
in his effort to find variety, and duly posted by
Miss West.  He wondered who this Colonel
Vivian was, who sustained the English name
with such heroism, and who was suffering from
dangerous wounds; having been dashed out
of the boat against a spar; and for a moment,
as he turned over the various names of the
places, it occurred to him that it might be the
handsome stranger he had met as he came away.
The uneasiness was but for a moment. Had he
seen the French paper, the Gazette, he would
have been amused by an account from quite a
different point of view. For, characteristically, after
the first official sympathy and congratulation,
and the mayor had personally paid his compliments
to Davy and his companions, popular
feeling seemed to incline altogether to the two
Frenchmen who had assisted, and the whole
matter became only one more instance of the
"gloire du peuple Français." This was the
stuff with which her marine was to be
filled, with very faint allusion to the
collaboration of Jean Davi et de M. Vivienne
(named, of course, after the well-known street
in Paris), "qui se comporta avec une admirable
fermeté et un phlegme vraiment Britannique."
Decorations presently arrived for the two brave
French heroes; but "Jean Davi" and his
friends were suffered to depart in the collier.

Mr. West stayed in London a few days,
where he had not been for some years. He
went about with fresh curiosity, admiring
the changes that had taken place in his
absence. Some feeling like "What a charming
world, what a pretty one, and what curious
things are to be seen in it!" rose in his mind.
Hitherto he had passed all these things by. He
was now awakening as from a dream. The first
thing he determined on was to go down to
Westown, and see the old place.

Westown was in the pleasant county of
Hertfordshire, among the stately woods which spread
out towards Stevenage. It was a little estate,
with a modest red brick house of about a
hundred years old, but of an older pattern.

He had not been here since he was eighteen
or twenty. It seemed to him double the time;
an age ago; a miserable era of convulsion and
gloom, as though he had been in a jail for some
crime, and from which he always kept his eyes
turned away. Yet, as he came back now, he had
no such feelings. He had given no notice of
his coming, went down by coach, was "dropped"
at an inn which he well knew, and where he
took a chaise on to Westown.

He reached it about six o'clock in the evening,
and drew up at the gateway, which seemed
the entrance to some old churchyard; so wild
and rank was it in the fulness of moss and
ivy, and every straggling luxuriance which
overgrew it. The rusty gate, whose hinge had worn
away, hung all awry. No one came to open it;
so he got down, and, with the driver's aid,
lifted it back, then walked up the avenue slowly.
It might have been a path through the fields,
and was almost indistinguishable. Then he
came on the house itself, compact, low, and of
that cheerful kindly red, the tone of which is
now as much lost to us as the Sèvres blue. It,
too, was all overgrown with a wild greenery,
lank and drooping, from among which, however,
the patches of cheerful colour peeped out
brightly, like a young girl's healthy cheek from
under a veil. No wonder; it was nearly a
twenty years' growth, unrestricted and
unchecked.

An old man opened the door, and looked out
at him with impatience and doubt. "What
do you want?" he said. "The family don't
stop here, and never will; and it's not to
be let."

"Why, don't you remember me, Wilkes?" said
Mr. West, gently.

The old man peered again, started, and then
said, slowly and hesitatingly, " What, Master
Gilbert?" He did not go into the rapture which
is, alas! like so many other things, conventional.
The weeping and covering hands with kisses of
old servants has passed out. Perhaps this member
of the community received " the old master"
with misgivings. His pleasant tenure and long