Too much shocked at the change in her appearance to speak, Tony could only mumble out a few broken words about her father.
“Yes,” cried she, eagerly, “his last letter says that he rides old Dobbin about just as well as ever; 'perhaps it is,' says he, 'that having both of us grown old together, we bear our years with more tolerance to each other;' but won't you sit down, Tony? you 're not going away till I have talked a little with you.”
“Is the music lesson finished, Miss Stewart?” asked the thin lady, sternly.
“Yes, ma'am; we have done everything but sacred history.”
“Everything but the one important task, you might have said, Miss Stewart; but, perhaps, you are not now exactly in the temperament to resume teaching for to-day; and as this young gentleman's mission is apparently to report, not only on your health but your happiness, I shall leave you a quarter of an hour to give him his instructions.”
“I hate that woman,” muttered Tony, as the door closed after her.
“No, Tony, she's not unkind; but she doesn't exactly see the world the way you and I used long ago. What a great big man you have grown!”
“And what a fine tall girl, you! And I used to call you a stump!”
“Ay, there were few compliments wasted between us in those days; but weren't they happy?”
“Do you remember them all, Dolly?”