“Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you know her?”
There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora’s arms, like a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago.
“This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me—you that I left in arms! And,” as she advanced into the drawing-room—“why, surely this is not Margaret!”
“A Margaret—not the Margaret. I wish I were,” said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. “See, Flora, these black locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she is. Can’t you guess?”
“Miss Rivers!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment.
“Yes,” said Dr. May. “We change Mary for this little woman as Flora’s lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting.”
“Flora and her husband! There’s a marvellous sound! Where are they?”
“They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,” said Ethel; “and Mary with them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college meeting.”
“And Margaret—my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?”
“Ah! poor dear,” said Dr. May, “she has not been in this room since that sultry day in July.”