"Eh, bairns! is it no' a bonny day!" said Mrs Snow, breaking into
Scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the
sisters, or when a little moved. "I ay mind the first look I got o' the
hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones,
through the trees. We all came round the water on a Saturday afternoon
like this; and Norman and Harry took turns in carrying wee Rosie, and we
sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water.
Eh, bairns! if I could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have
been since then, of all the `goodness and mercy' that has passed before
us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been
rebuked!"
They were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at Mr
Nasmyth's, and Mr Millar was with them. Nothing more had been said
about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, "his
looks belied him," as Miss Lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched
them, all going up the hill together. They were going very slowly,
because of Mrs Snow's lingering weakness. One of the few of the
"Scotch prejudices!" that remained with her after all these years, was
the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion,
when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of Mr
Snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon.
"It is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the
bairns," said she, and she got her own way.
It was a "bonny day," mild, bright, and still. The autumnal beauty of
the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though October
was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly
through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many
which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. They
had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing
over the pond to the hills beyond, as Mrs Snow spoke.
"Yes, I mind," said Graeme.
"And I mind, too," said Rose, softly.
"It's a bonny place," said Mrs Snow, in a little, "and it has changed
but little in all those years. The woods have gone back a little on
some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have
grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes."
"The old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used,"
said Rose, regretfully.
"Ay, it has that. I mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when I
first saw it from the side of the water. That was before I had been in
it, or very near it. But I learnt to love it for better things than
stateliness, before very long. I was ill-pleased when they first spoke
of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it
is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better."
"Yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with
wallflowers and ivy growing over it," said Graeme.
"Yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful
things. The old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for
many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old
one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the
forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now."
"Yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering
shingles. But I wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate,
built the new one on the same site. We shall never have any pleasant
associations with the new red brick affair that the Merleville people
are so proud of."
And so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly
old meeting-house--things that had happened in the old time, when the
bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a
kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. Those happy, happy days!
"Oh! well," said Mrs Snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, "it's
a bonny place, and I have learnt to love it well. But if any one had
told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other
place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a
foolishness in my ears."
"Ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, Janet, though
it was so merry to the boys and me," said Graeme. "It would have
comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you
now, and with Sandy."
"I am not so sure of that, my dear. We are untoward creatures, at the
best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like
brightness then. No, love, the changes that seem so good and right to
look back upon, would have dismayed me, could I have seen them before
me. It is well that we must just live on from one day to another,
content with what each one brings."
"Ah! if we could always do that!" said Graeme, sighing.
"My bairn, we can. Though I mind, even in those old happy days, you had
a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow's burden to the burden of
to-day. But that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have
seen of the Lord's goodness, to you and yours. What would you wish
changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we
looked on the bonny hills and valleys of Merleville?"
"Janet," said Graeme, speaking low, "death has come to us since that
day."
"Ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be
grieved for least of all. Think of them all these years, among the
hills of Heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her.
And think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his
having speech with David, and Paul, and with our Lord himself--"
Janet's voice faltered, and Graeme clasped softly the withered hand that
lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered
Sandy and Emily's joyful greeting at the door.
Rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves
beneath the elms. Graeme came down again, there, and Mr Nasmyth came
to speak to them, and so did Emily, but they did not stay long; and by
and by Rose was left alone with Mr Millar, for the very first time
during his visit. Not that she was really alone with him, for all the
rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright
October sunshine. She could join them in a moment, she thought, not
that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so,
however. All this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen
leaves toward the gate on which Mr Millar was leaning; and then she saw
that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him
to let her pass. But, of course, there could be no occasion for that.
"How clearly we can see the shadows in the water," said she, for the
sake of saying something. "Look over yonder, at the point where the
cedar trees grow low. Do you see?"
"Yes, I see," said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars.
"Rose, do you know why I came here?"
Rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all
sitting so quietly.
"It was to bring us news of Will, wasn't it? And to see Merleville?"
said she.
Did she say it? Or had she only thought of it? She was not sure, a
minute after, for Mr Millar went on as if he had heard nothing.
"I came to ask you to be my wife."
Did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the
time? She did not know. She was not sure; but she stood before him
with downcast eyes, without a word.
"You know I have loved you always--since the night that Harry took me
home with him. My fancy has never wandered from you, all these years.
Rose, you must know I love you, dearly. I have only that to plead. I
know I am not worthy of you, except for the love I bear you."
He had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and
strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken
and hurriedly, and he repeated,--
"I know I am not worthy."
"Oh! Charlie, don't say such foolish words to me." And Rose gave him a
single glimpse of her face. It was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a
great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which
separated them trembled, though Rose did not look up to see it.
"Rosie," he whispered, "come down to the brook and show me Harry's
waterfall."
Rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in
it; and when Charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did
not withdraw it, and they went over the field together.
Graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of
sight, she turned her eyes toward Mrs Snow, with a long breath.
"It has come at last, Janet," said she.
"I shouldna wonder, dear. But it is no' a thing to grieve over, if it
has come."
"No. And I am not going to grieve. I am glad, even though I have to
seek my fortune, all alone. But I have Will, yet," added she, in a
little. "There is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. I
am sure of Will, at least."
Mrs Snow smiled and shook her head.
"Will's time will come, doubtless. You are not to build a castle for
yourself and Will, unless you make room for more than just you two in
it, dear."
Emily listened, smiling.
"It would be as well to leave the building of Will's castle to himself,"
said she.
"Ah! yes, I suppose so," said Graeme, with a sigh. "One must build for
one's self. But, Emily, dear, I built Rosie's castle. I have wished
for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long
long time. I have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle
was to tumble down about my ears, but Charlie has put his hand to the
work, now, in right good earnest, and I think my castle will stand."
"See here, Emily," said Mr Snow, coming in an hour or two later, "if
Mr Millar thinks of catching the cars for Boston, this evening, you'll
have to hurry up your tea."
"But he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing," said Mrs Snow.
"Dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young
man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for Boston."
"Why no, mother, I ain't. He spoke about it this morning, himself, or
I'm pretty sure I shouldn't. I'll be glad to have him stay, and more
than glad."
"He is going to stay and hear the minister preach," said Graeme. "You
know you asked him, and I'm sure he will enjoy it."
"He is a good preacher," said Mr Snow, gravely.
"And he's a good practiser, which is far better," said his wife. "But I
doubt, deacon, you'll need to put him out of your head now. Look down
yonder, and tell me if you think Rosie is likely to bide in Merleville."
And the deacon, looking, saw Mr Millar and Rose coming slowly up the
path together, and a duller man than Mr Snow could hardly have failed
to see how matters stood between them. Mr Millar was looking down on
the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and
triumphant, and, as for Rose, Mr Snow had never seen her look at all as
she was looking at that moment.
"Well," said his wife, softly.
"Well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see," said Mr Snow.
He nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned
his eyes on Graeme.
His wife smiled.
"No, I am afraid not. Every one must build his own castle, as I heard
her saying--or was it Emily? this very afternoon. But we needna trouble
ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. It is all
in good hands."
"And, Rosie dear, all this might have happened at Norman's last year, if
only Charlie had been bolder, and Harry not so wise."
The sisters were in their own room together. A good deal had been said
before this time that need not be repeated. Graeme had made her sister
understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly
words about Charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out
of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, Rose was as
happy, as happy could be. But when Graeme said this, she turned round
with a very grave face.
"I don't know, Graeme. Perhaps it might; but I am not sure. I did not
know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is."
"Harry will be glad," said Graeme. Indeed, she had said that before.
Rose laughed.
"Dear, wise Harry! He always said Charlie was pure gold."
"And so he is," said Graeme.
"I know it, Graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me." And Rose
laid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, with a little sob. "Ah! if
he only knew, I am afraid--"
"Dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about Harry. You
love one another, and you need not be afraid."
They were silent for a long time after that, and then Rose said,
flushing a little,--
"And, Graeme, dear, Charlie says--but I promised not to tell--"
"Well, you must not, then," said Graeme, smiling, with just a little
throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, Rose, and
her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to
her.
"Not that it is a secret, Graeme," said her sister, eagerly.
"It is something that Charlie has very much at heart, but I am not so
sure myself. But it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. Graeme,
Charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you."
Graeme laughed.
"Except you, Rosie."
"I am not good, Graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you
know. But I will try and be good, now, indeed I will."
"My darling," murmured Graeme, "I am so glad for you--so glad and
thankful. We ought to be good. God has been very good to us all."
Of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters
to their old friend. Mr Millar went away rather reluctantly, alone,
but the Winter had quite set in before they went home. Mrs Snow was
well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and
she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again.
"But, whether or not," said she, cheerfully, "I shall ay be glad and
thankful for the quiet time we have had together. There are few who can
say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or
their lot; but I do say that of all your father's bairns. No' but that
there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that I canna
see, and maybe some that I can see; but when the face is set in the
right airt [direction] all winds waft onward, and that, I trust, is true
of you all. And, Rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full
cup, as I have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, `Except the
Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,' and, `the
foundation of God standeth sure.' Miss Graeme, my dear, `They that wait
on the Lord shall renew their strength,' as you have learnt yourself
long syne. God bless you both, and farewell."
They had a very quiet and happy winter. They had to make the
acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved,
Harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little
Amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made
plain to him by Mrs Roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to
be thought of. Her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted
at least one season to see something of society before her marriage.
She was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a
son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind
among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a _gentleman_,
and she had other daughters growing up. Still it was right that Amy
should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the
irrevocable step was taken. If Mrs Roxbury could have had her way
about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had
been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as
that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding.
And so the pretty Amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was
an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles,
and seemed to enjoy it all very well. As for Harry, he sometimes went
with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the
state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable,
though they by no means approved of the trial to which Amy's constancy
was exposed. But they were not afraid for her. Every visit she made
them--and many quiet mornings she passed with them--they became more
assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their
brother, and so they thought Harry unreasonable in his impatience, and
told him so, sometimes.
"A little vexation and suspense will do Harry no harm," said Arthur.
"Events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience.
In he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to Miss
Roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and
now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every
particular. A little suspense will do him good."
Which was very hard-hearted on Arthur's part, as his wife told him.
"And, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling Harry," said Rose.
"He knows quite well how it is to end. It is only a momentary vexation.
And I don't say, myself, it will do Harry any harm to have his
masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare
possibility of disappointment. One values what it costs one some
trouble to have and to hold."
"Rose, you are as bad as Arthur," said Fanny.
"Am I? Oh! I do not mean that Harry doesn't value little Amy enough;
but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to
trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much."
"It is you who are foolish, now, Rose," said her sister. "Harry may be
unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and Amy is a jewel too
precious not to be guarded. No wonder that he grudges so much of her
time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. But it will
soon be over now."
"Who knows? `There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you
know," said Arthur. "Who knows but Harry may be the victim among us?
Our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto.
Witness Rosie's success. It would make a little variety to have an
interruption."
But Harry was not destined to be a victim. As the winter wore over,
Mrs Roxbury relented, and "listened to reason on the subject," Harry
said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual
occupation in the Roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to
throw Rosie's modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether
in the shade. But Rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed
her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of Harry's
bride. As for little Amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very
coolly. Mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and
enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would
be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion
on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little
bride than she.
At first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the
same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. It would be
inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at
the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be
shortened. And besides, the magnificence of the Roxbury plans, would
involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or
convenient; and Rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the
home Charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that Harry's
marriage should take place in the latter part of April, and the other
early in the summer.
But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard from himself
first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a
letter came from Mr Ruthven to Graeme, telling her that her brother was
ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say
in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too
easily inferred from his manner of writing.
The next letter and the next, brought no better news. It was a time of
great anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of all. As the days went on, and
nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not
at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them.
It was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and
she said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at the
last."
He would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this
made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. If she could have
done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it
was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it
would not have been so dreadful Graeme thought. Her heart failed her,
and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and
arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that
she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of
these very anxious days.
She did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly
in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and
trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from
Mrs Snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which
only times of great trial had ever called forth from her.
"My bairn," she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm?
_Absolutely nothing_! Whether it be life or death that is before your
brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for
yourself. I think he will be spared to do God's work for a while yet.
But dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor I would
like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on
our Father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to
pass."
Their suspense did not last very long after this. Mr Ruthven's weekly
letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon Will wrote
himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had
watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those
weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible
moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where Mrs Millar, his
mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely,
coming back to life and health again. There was no hope of his being
able to be home to Harry's marriage, but unless something should happen
to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of Rosie Elliott,
and the first of his new brother Charlie.
There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over which she shed
happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old
friend, "Brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning
and value of life. I am glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme,
and for the sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do."
After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. It
was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. Amy and her
bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and
that is saying a great deal. There were many invited guests, and
somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty
wedding, and Saint Andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only
the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. The
breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride's
travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste
and skill, as the bridal robe itself.
Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused them not a
little by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an object of interest, a
very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of
bridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and
unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts,
as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graeme
kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little
sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked God
in her heart, for the happiness of her brother Harry. Yes, and for the
happiness of her brother Arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she
greatly surprised Fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her
softly many times. They were in one of the bay windows of the great
drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that
they were unobserved by all but Arthur.
"Graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this
auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased.
After this they had a few happy weeks. Rosie's preparations were by
this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and
they all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly from Will, or his
friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the
invalid. They were no longer mere reports of his health, but long,
merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits
of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generally
given by Will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified Mr
Ruthven, whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almost
a stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was said as to
the day when they expected to set sail. But before that time, great
news had come from another quarter. Norman and his family were coming
East. A succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones,
and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than
their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming
to take up their abode for a month or two, on the Gulf, up which
health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. Graeme was
to go with them. As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too,
but Graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the
West, when their summer holiday should be over.
This was Norman's view of the matter. Graeme's plans were not
sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with
regard to it. In the meantime, there were many preparations to be made
for their coming, and Graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that
they might be in time for the wedding.
"And if only Will comes, we shall all be together again once more," said
she, with a long breath.
"To say nothing of Norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, and
Fanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, I
think," said Rose.
"We will have a house full and a merry wedding," said Arthur. "Though
it won't be as grand as the other one, Rosie, I'm afraid. If we only
could have Mrs Snow here, Graeme?"
Graeme shook her head.
"I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. Not
that she is ill, but Mr Snow thinks the journey would be too much for
her. I am afraid it is not to be thought of?"
"Never mind--Charlie and Rosie can go round that way and get her
blessing. That will be the next best thing to having her here. And by
the time you are ready for the altar, Graeme, Janet will come, you may
be sure of that."
June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned,
and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was
nearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when
she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one
occasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass the
evening at Harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling
of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist,
uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again in
Rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the
present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure
to happen before that time--Norman's coming, and Will's. They might
come any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that
Will's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was
to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave
a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the
day, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her
footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have
arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and
impatience, and then she sighed.
"There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least there
will be none for me," she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "What
would I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safe
and well at home again."
But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given
her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. She
laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she
took herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. And
then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts,
with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of Norman and Hilda
and their boys.
"I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were to
lose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blame
Charlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were only
safe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house is
full. My boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all that
I have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy we
shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my going
home with Norman and Hilda--that must be decided later, as Will shall
make his plans. My boy!--how can I ever wait for his coming?"
It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lights
were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming
through the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone.
"I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don't feel as though I
could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wish
Sarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonder
who they are!"
Sarah's face was illuminated.
"You have come at last, Miss Elliott," said she.
"Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? _You_
are expected elsewhere."
It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer,
and said,--
"Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand was
clasped in that of Allan Ruthven.