"Rupert!" I cried out. "O Rupert, I'm so glad!"
The change that came into his face! I don't think words can tell it. I called him "plain" just now, but he wasn't plain then. The ruggedest face can be made beautiful, if the light of a great joy is shining through it.
"Kitty, do you mean it? Kitty, you're not glad really! Tell me that again," says he, all hoarse and shaky.
"Of course I'm glad," said I. "Don't you know how unkind I was before you went away? I have always wanted to tell you I was sorry."
"O Kitty!" says he, and he couldn't go on.
"But you don't know why we are here, or about poor father?" I said.
"Yes, yes, I've heard all," said he. "I went to my mother first, and she and Mr. Armstrong told me everything. But I wouldn't let them write. I wanted to find you out, and see for myself."
He didn't say what it was he wanted to see.
"Where have you been all this while?" I asked. "Sit down, Rupert."
I was noticing how he'd grown taller, and how he was readier in speech, and didn't slouch as he used.