I had gone up almost to the house; I had passed the stream where we fished on that day, many years before; and I thought that now, since she was grown to womanhood, I should never sit with her there again, and surely never drag her as I did out of the water, and never chafe her little hands, and never, perhaps, kiss her, as I did when she sat upon my mother’s lap—oh, no—no—no!
I saw where we buried Tray, but the old slab was gone; there was no ribbon there now. I thought that at least Isabel would have replaced the slab, but it was a wrong thought. I trembled when I went up to the door, for it flashed upon me that perhaps Isabel was married. I could not tell why she should not; but I knew it would make me uncomfortable to hear that she had.
There was a tall woman who opened the door; she did not know me, but I recognized her as one of the old servants. I asked after the housekeeper first, thinking I would surprise Isabel. My heart fluttered somewhat, thinking that she might step in suddenly herself—or perhaps that she might have seen me coming up the hill. But even then I thought she would hardly know me.
Presently the housekeeper came in, looking very grave; she asked if the gentleman wished to see her.
The gentleman did wish it, and she sat down on one side of the fire—for it was autumn, and the leaves were falling, and the November winds were very chilly.
—Shall I tell her—thought I—who I am, or ask at once for Isabel? I tried to ask, but it was hard for me to call her name; it was very strange, but I could not pronounce it at all.
“Who, sir?” said the housekeeper, in a tone so earnest that I rose at once and crossed over and took her hand. “You know me,” said I—“you surely remember Paul?”
She started with surprise, but recovered herself and resumed the same grave manner. I thought I had committed some mistake, or been in some way cause of offense. I called her madame, and asked for—Isabel.
She turned pale, terribly pale. “Bella?” said she.
“Yes. Bella.”