“I should like to kick him!” amiably responded Harry.
“I hope you won’t to-morrow! But don’t let us waste our time over this; I want so much to hear about New Zealand.”
Meta was well read in Australasian literature, and drew out a great deal more information from Harry than Norman had yet heard. She made him talk about the Maori pah near his uncle’s farm, where the Sunday services were conducted by an old gentleman tattooed elegantly in the face, but dressed like an English clergyman; and tell of his aunt’s troubles about the younger generation, whom their elders, though Christians themselves, could not educate, and who she feared would relapse into heathenism, for want of instruction, though with excellent dispositions.
“How glad you must be that you are likely to go!” exclaimed Meta to Norman, who had sat silently listening.
The sound of the door bell was the first intimation that Harry’s histories had occupied them until long past twelve o’clock.
“Now, then!” cried Meta, springing forward, as if intending to meet Flora with the tidings, but checking herself, as if she ought not to be the first. There was a pause. Flora was hearing downstairs that Mr. Norman May and another gentleman had arrived, and, while vexed at her own omission, and annoyed at Norman’s bringing friends without waiting for permission, she was yet prepared to be courteous and amiable. She entered in her rich black watered silk, deeply trimmed with lace, and with silver ornaments in her dark hair, so graceful and distinguished-looking, that Harry stood suspended, hesitating, for an instant, whether he beheld his own sister, especially as she made a dignified inclination towards him, offering her hand to Norman, as she said, “Meta has told you—” But there she broke off, exclaiming, “Ha! is it possible! No, surely it cannot be—”
“Miss Walkinghame?” said the sailor, who had felt at home with her at the first word, and she flew into his great rough arms.
“Harry! this is dear Harry! our own dear sailor come back,” cried she, as her husband stood astonished; and, springing towards him, she put Harry’s hand into his, “My brother Harry! our dear lost one.”
“Your—brother—Harry,” slowly pronounced George, as he instinctively gave the grasp of greeting—“your brother that was lost? Upon my word,” as the matter dawned fully on him, and he became eager, “I am very glad to see you. I never was more rejoiced in my life.”
“When did you come? Have you been at home?” asked Flora.