"Stop, stop for one moment!" pleaded Leslie. "I—I want to speak to them. Oh, I can't, I can't!" she cried. "You speak, Yorke! Thank them, oh, thank them!"
They could not stop, and in despair Leslie snatched up one of the roses and kissed it at the children, and waved her hand.
"That's better than a speech," said Yorke delightedly. "Look at them clapping their hands, and hear them shouting. Commend me to Lady Auchester for doing the right thing in an emergency. Here we are!" he exclaimed, as the carriage drew up at the steps, and four grooms ran forward to the horses' heads, and he got out and held his hand to her.
As they passed up the steps, lined on either side by the servants, the cheers were redoubled, mingled with shouts:
"Welcome home, my lord! Welcome home, my lady!"
At the top of the steps stood the gray-haired butler. Yorke nearly spoiled his short speech by shaking hands with him, but the old fellow stammered it out, and Yorke, with his wife on his arm, looked round with his bright smile, and opened his lips.
But, as he said afterward, a lump came into his throat, and for a moment or two he could not utter a word, and even then he found himself stammering as the butler had done, as he said:
"Thank you, thank you! I should like to tell you how deeply I feel your kindness, but I can't, somehow! But I do feel it very much, and so does my wife, my dear wife——," he stopped suddenly, and in the unexpected silence, a voice—it was that of the little scullery-maid, who had edged forward—was heard distinctly—"Oh, isn't she lovely!"
A proud light flashed into Yorke's eyes, and he held his head high.
"Yes," he said, "she is lovely! But she is something better than that; she is good—good!"