“You may count upon me, at all events,” said Lizzy, extending her hand to him. “I am, indeed, proud to know you.”
“Nor would I be forgotten in this pleasant compact,” said Sybella, advancing towards Lizzy. “We have less to forgive, my dear cousin, and we can be friends without even an explanation.”
The acquaintance thus happily opened, they continued to walk the terrace together for hours, till at length the chill night air warned Conway that he was still an invalid.
“Till to-morrow, then,” said Sybella, as she kissed Lizzy's cheek affectionately.
“Till to-morrow!” replied the other, as a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, for hers was a sad heart, as she followed with her eyes their retreating figures.
“Ain't he a trump!” cried Beecher, as he drew his wife's arm within his own, and led her along at his side. “He doesn't believe one syllable about our sending those fellows over to the Crimea to crib the papers; he fancies we were all 'on the square'—Oh, I forgot,” broke he in, suddenly, “you were never in the secret yourself. At all events, he's a splendid fellow, and he's going to leave the Irish estates with us, and that old house at Kellett's Court. But where's your father? I 'm dying to tell him this piece of news.”
“Here I am,” said Grog, gruffly, as he came forth from a little arbor, where he had been hiding.
“We're all right, old boy,” burst in Beecher, joyfully. “I tried the cousin dodge with Conway, rubbed him down smoothly, and the upshot is, he has offered us the Irish property.”
Grog gave a short grunt and fixed his eyes steadfastly on his daughter, who, pale and trembling all over, caught her father's arm for support.
“He felt, naturally enough,” resumed Beecher, “that ours was a deuced hard case.”