“This is Josephine, Peter,” said Miss Dinah; and though Barrington rushed forward to clasp her in his arms, she merely crossed hers demurely on her breast and courtesied deeply.
“It is your grandpapa, Josephine,” said Miss Dinah, half tartly.
The young girl opened her large, full, lustrous eyes, and stared steadfastly at him, and then, with infinite grace, she took his hand and kissed it.
“My own dear child,” cried the old man, throwing his arms around her, “it is not homage, it is your love we want.”
“Take care, Peter, take care,” whispered his sister; “she is very timid and very strange.”
“You speak English, I hope, dear?” said the old man.
“Yes, sir, I like it best,” said she. And there was the very faintest possible foreign accent in the words.
“Is n't that George's own voice, Dinah? Don't you think you heard himself there?”
“The voice is certainly like him,” said Miss Dinah, with a marked emphasis.
“And so are—no, not her eyes, but her brow, Dinah. Yes, darling, you have his own frank look, and I feel sure you have his own generous nature.”