‘I should have given you a hint,’ says he remorsefully. ‘I thought of only giving you a glad surprise; but it has been too much for you. I should have said a word or two.’
‘There is nothing, nothing you have left undone,’ says Susan, looking at him over Bonnie’s head, and speaking with a gratitude that is almost fierce. ‘Nothing!’
The others have all got down off their wall by this time, and are kissing and hugging Bonnie. After all, if they had had the first view of the carriage, still Susan has certainly had the best of the whole affair. Mr. Barry, with his handsome, gaunt face, radiant now, is endeavouring to hold them back.
‘You will come in?’ says Susan to Crosby. ‘Auntie is waiting for you, to thank you—as if’—her eyes slowly filling again—‘anyone could thank you.’
‘Oh, you can!’ says Crosby, laughing. ‘I was never so thanked in all my life. Why, your eyes, Susan! They hold great worlds of gratitude. You’ll have to stop being thankful to me, or I shall run away once more. And’—he looks at her with a half-laugh on his lips, but question in his eyes—‘you would not like to drive me into exile so soon again, would you?’
‘No, no!’ says Susan. ‘You have been a very long time away as it is.’
‘You have missed me, I hope—by that.’
‘We have all missed you,’ says Susan softly.
‘That’s a very general remark. Have you missed me?’
‘Every hour of the day,’ says Susan fervently—too fervently, too openly. Crosby laughs again, but there is a tincture of disappointment in his mirth this time.