And, as she struck a note on the piano, all the younger people still up, Mysie, Phyllis, Wilfred and Valetta, gathered round from the outer room to join in their evening Sunday delight. Fly put her hand into her father’s and whispered, ‘You told me about it, daddy.’ He began to sing, but his voice thickened as he missed the tones once associated with it. And Lady Merrifield, too, nearly broke down as with all her heart she sang, hopefully,
‘Now Lord, the gracious work begin.’
CHAPTER XVII. — THE STONE MELTING.
It was with a strange feeling that Dolores woke on the New Year’s morning, that something was very sad and strange, and yet that there was a sense of relief. For one thing, that terrible confession to her father was written, and was no longer a weight hanging over her. And though his answer was still to come, that was months away. There was Uncle Regie greatly displeased with her; there was Constance treating her as a traitor; there was the mischief done, and yet something hard and heavy was gone? Something sweet and precious had come in on her! Surely it was, that now she knew and felt that she could trust in Aunt Lilias—yes, and in Mysie. She got up, quite looking forward to meeting those gentle, brown eyes of her aunt’s, that she seemed never before to have looked into, and to feeling the sweet, motherly kiss which had so mud, more meaning in it now, as almost to make up for Uncle Reginald’s estrangement.
She even anticipated gladly those ten minutes alone with her aunt, which she used to dislike so much, hoping that the holiday-time would not hinder them. Really wishing to please her aunt, she had learnt her portion perfectly, and Lady Merrifield showed that she appreciated the effort, though still it was more a lesson than a reality.
‘My dear!’ she said, ‘I am afraid this is another blow for you—it came this morning.’
It was the account from Professor Muhlwasser’s German publisher, amounting to a few shillings more than six pounds. And an announcement that the books were on the way.
‘Oh,’ cried Dolores, ‘I thought he was dead! He told me so! Uncle Alfred, I mean! And it was only to get the money! How could he be so wicked?’
‘I am afraid that was all he cared for.’