In the yellow candle-light within, Lord Rockhurst had ceremoniously greeted his son’s betrothed. Silently she courtesied. Then, as they drew closer to each other, the man saw traces of tears on the fair cheek.
“What is this?” he exclaimed. “You have been weeping!”
“Truly, my lord,” said she, smiling, yet with a little catch in her breath, “I should be ashamed to show you this disfigured countenance.”
“Disfigured?” he echoed. “Nay—transfigured!”
He took a quick step toward her as she spoke; but she drew back.
“I have a letter from Harry,” she said constrainedly; and Rockhurst drew himself up, darkening.
“Aye,” said he, and then approached her again, his whole manner delicately, indescribably altered. “Good news, I trust?”
“Oh, vastly,” she answered, with a small, flustered laugh, drawing a folded sheet from her bosom. There was a deep pause. “I am glad to have heard from Harry,” she declared of a sudden, bravely.
“So glad,” he said, low-voiced, “that you wept.”