And Richard could hardly believe in his joy. This splendid Elizabeth of twenty-eight, in all the glory and radiance of her calmed and chastened soul, and her perfected womanhood, was infinitely more charming and lovable than he had ever seen her before. He told her so in glad and happy words, and Elizabeth listened, proud and well-contented with his praise. For an hour he would not suffer her to leave him; yes, it took him an hour, to tell her how well she looked in her riding-dress.
Neither of them spoke of the events which had separated or re-united them. It was enough that they were together. They perfectly trusted each other without explanations. Those could come afterward, but this day was too fair for any memory of sorrow. When Elizabeth came down to dinner she found Harry standing at Richard’s knee, explaining to him the lessons he was studying. Her eyes took in with light the picture—the thoughtful gentleness of the dark head, the rosy face of the fair-haired boy.
“I have been showing the gentleman my new book, aunt;” then he bowed to Richard, and, gently removing himself from his arm, went to his aunt’s side.
“He says he is called Henry Hallam.”
“Yes, he is my brother’s only child.”
And Richard dropped his eyes; and, turning the subject, said, “I called at the rector’s as I came here. He insists upon my staying with him, Elizabeth. He says the hall is not prepared for visitors.”
“I think he is right, Richard.”
“I brought him a likeness of Phyllis and her husband. I have a similar gift for you.”
“No one will prize them more. When did you see Phyllis?”
“A month ago. She is well and happy. John is a member of the Legislature this year. He seems to vibrate between the Senate and the frontier. He is a fine fellow, and they are doing well.”