The door was opened, Mr. May was announced, and they were in a silk-lined boudoir, where a little slender figure in black started up, and came forward with outstretched hand.
“Norman!” she cried, “how are you? Are you come on your way to Oxford?”
“Has not Flora had Mary’s letter?”
“Yes, she said she had one. She was keeping it till she had time to read it.”
As she spoke, Meta had given her hand to Harry, as it was evidently expected; she raised her eyes to his face, and said, smiling’ and blushing, “I am sure I ought to know you, but I am afraid I don’t.”
“Look again,” said Norman. “See if you have ever seen him before.”
Laughing, glancing, and casting down her eyes, she raised them with a sudden start of joy, but colouring more deeply, said, “Indeed, I cannot remember. I dare say I ought.”
“I think you see a likeness,” said Norman.
“Oh, yes, I see,” she answered, faltering; but perceiving how bright were the looks of both, “No? Impossible! Yes, it is!”
“Yes, it is,” said both brothers with one voice. She clasped her hands, absolutely bounded with transport, then grasped both Harry’s hands, and then Norman’s, her whole countenance radiant with joy and sympathy beyond expression.