When, a little later, her father came bustling in, with a preoccupied pucker on his brow, and his most absent manner, she almost gave up all idea of asking questions. Dinner passed in perfect silence, and she was startled when Mr Forrest suddenly mentioned the very place that was in her mind.
“Well, Anna,” he said, “I’ve been to Waverley to-day.”
“Oh, father, have you?” she answered eagerly.
Mr Forrest sipped his wine reflectively.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen next August,” replied Anna.
“Then,” he continued, half to himself, “it must be over sixteen years since I saw Waverley and Dornton.”
“Are they just the same?” asked his daughter; “are they pretty places?”
“Waverley’s pretty enough. Your Uncle John has built another room, and spoilt the look of the old house, but that’s the only change I can see.”
“And Dornton,” said Anna, “what is that like?”