When I had come to the window I raised myself up till my head was on a level with the bottom panes, and looked within.
The room held four persons. On one side of the fire sat my father, seeming to be much older than I remembered him, in his great arm-chair, with pillows at the back. Standing up on the opposite side of the hearth was a figure which I quickly recognised for Mr. Peter Walpole, though his back was towards me. It was Saturday night, and he had plainly arrived a short time before me, from Norwich. Between the two was my mother, sitting placidly as of old, and unchanged except for a wistful sadness in her eyes, which it smote me to the heart to notice, and beside her a young woman, scarce more than a girl, with a singular sweet expression on her face, who was at first strange to me.
Mr. Walpole was speaking when I first looked in upon them.
“We are like to have more news from the East Indies. The Norwich Journal announces that a Company’s ship has entered the Thames, bringing news of a great victory over the Moors of Bengal.”
My mother looked round sharply, and cried out—
“Tell me at once, Mr. Walpole, if you have heard anything of our boy?”
The good old man shook his head.
“No, no, ma’am, there is no news of that sort. I fear it will be long before we hear of him. Indeed, it is but a chance that he is out in the East Indies at all. We did but hear a rumour that he had been seen in Calcutta.”
My mother let her head droop upon her breast. The girl bent over to her and laid her hand upon my mother’s shoulder.
“Don’t let yourself think that Athelstane has come to harm,” she said in a sweet, clear voice. (And if I had not recognised the face I recognised the voice. It was my little playmate, Patience Thurstan.) “I have a faith which makes me sure that he is still alive, and will some day come back to us again.”