“Very likely; but you shall see her, little one, nevertheless.”
“Oh, why should she avoid me?” I said, twinkling my tears away with the lashes that could not keep them back.
“Come—come—don’t be a baby, Zana; weep when you can do nothing better,” said the gipsy, out of patience with my childishness, “wait a moment, and I will send the girl out to meet you.”
“No, no, only ask if I may come in—that is all,” I cried, breathless with fear that he might be rough with the poor girl, “tell her that we come from Mr. Clark; tell her anything that is kind.”
He did not hear half I said, but entered the house. Directly he returned, and beckoned with his hand. I advanced into a large kitchen, furnished comfortably, but rudely, after the Scottish fashion, in houses of the kind.
“Go in yonder,” said Chaleco, pointing to an inner door, through which I heard the faint rustle of a dress.
I entered a small room, fitted up with some attempt at elegance. A faded carpet was on the floor, and some old-fashioned oak furniture stood around. Two or three good cabinet pictures were on the walls, and some dainty ornaments of antique and foreign manufacture stood upon a table near the lattice. By this table stood Cora, stooping wearily forward, and supporting herself by the window-frame, with her great, wild eyes, black with excitement, bent upon the entrance. The long golden waves which ended in ringlets on her shoulders, seemed to light up the pallor of her cheeks, and I saw that she shrunk and trembled at my approach.
“Cora!” I said, with a gush of loving joy, “dear, dear Cora!”
She shrunk back, folding her arms, and eyeing me with a look of affright.
“Cora, I came from your father; speak to me, I am so glad to see you.”