“Cecilia,” called the judge, his voice ringing out happily, “everything is ready now, and Cesh is restive.”
Cicely gave one of her sudden little laughs. “Poor grandpa! he is so frantic with joy that he even says ‘Cesh,’—though he loathes abbreviations!”
Secession, the mule, started on his leisurely walk towards Romney.
In the same lighted doorway where Eve had been received upon her first arrival, now appeared again the tall figure of Miss Sabrina. The poor lady was crying.
“Oh, my darling Cicely, what sorrow!” she said, embracing her niece fondly.
As they entered the hall: “Oh, my darling Cicely, what a home-coming for you! And to think—“ More tears.
As they came into the lighted parlor: “Oh, my darling Cicely—What! no mourning?” This last in genuine surprise.
Cicely closed the door. She stood in the centre of the room. “This is not a charnel-house, Sabrina. No one is to speak to me of graves. As to mourning, I shall not wear an inch of it; you may wear as many yards as you like—you always loved it; did you begin to mourn for Ferdie before he was dead?”
“Oh, pa, she said such terrible things to me—our own Cicely. I don’t know how to take it!” moaned poor Miss Sabrina to her father when they were left alone.
“Well, you are pretty black, Sabrina,” suggested the judge, doubtfully. “Those tossels now—”