"Come," she laughed, "we have been through a real adventure; and that's more than happens to most people if they live to be a hundred." Suddenly she became grave. "I can't bear to think of it, though," she added. Then she turned toward him, and spoke with seriousness. "At least, Mr. Wynne, I am not so flighty that I do not thank God for my escape yesterday."
"Amen," he responded.
She walked over to the window, and stood looking out at the sunny day. The fire burned cheerfully on the wide, red hearth, and Maurice looked into its glowing heart thinking gratefully of his preservation and of the friendly refuge into which he had been brought. No reverent man can come face to face with death and escape without some feeling of awe and of gratitude to the power which has preserved him; and Maurice was filled with a sense of how great had been the hand which could bring him through such peril, how kind the protection which had preserved Berenice unscathed. Humility and tenderness overflowed his heart, and the inward thanksgiving which his spirit breathed was as sweet and as unselfish as if a personal passion had never invaded his breast.
"It seems to me," Berenice remarked from her place by the window, "that the woods on the hills over there are already beginning to show signs of spring. There is a sort of delicate change of color in them that means buds beginning to grow."
Before he could reply, the door opened, and Mehitabel presented herself with a card.
"Oh," said Berenice, as she received it, "already!"
There seemed to Maurice something of impatience or dismay in her tone.
She excused herself and went out, leaving the old servant with Wynne.
As soon as the door closed, Mehitabel turned upon him at once.
"Do you know him?" she demanded.
"Know whom?"
"This sprig that's come from Boston to see Miss Bee?"