Harebell trod on tip-toe, with eager eyes and a beating heart. On a couch near the open window was a grey-haired man propped up with pillows. His hands looked white and thin; his face was lined with pain; he had a hooked nose, and thick bushy eyebrows, but when he saw Harebell, both his lips and eyes smiled.
"The little niece! Come and welcome a poor old sick soldier, who isn't worth the trouble he gives."
"I'm so very glad you're here," said Harebell standing before him with clasped hands. "Me and God have talked you over often, and God seemed to tell me He would send you back soon."
If Colonel Keith was surprised at such a welcome, he did not show it. He looked at his wife, and his eyes grew soft and tender. Then he spoke to Harebell.
"Life deals hardly with those who quarrel with her. Don't you let your passions ever get mastery of your love, little woman."
"I don't understand a bit what you mean."
"And there is no need that you should," said her aunt a little sharply.
Colonel Keith put his hand on his wife's arm, as she stood by his couch. Her voice softened at once.
"Come and sit down and talk to your Uncle Herbert; I must go away for a little. I have letters to write."
So Harebell took a chair by the couch, and when her aunt had left the room, her tongue began to move, and she poured into her uncle's ear a flood of talk. She told him of her home in India, of Chris, of the Rectory children, of Tom Triggs and his sister and his mother, of Fanny Crake and her mother, and the little cottage. But she did not talk much of her aunt, and Colonel Keith noticed the omission. Harebell found him as good a listener as Mr. Graham. She ended up by saying impulsively: