"Katharine Streightley."
A quarter-past six.
The hour chimed gaily with a treble ring from the little French clock on the mantelpiece. The fire was burning steadily, as fires burn in cheerful frosty weather; the delicate scent of the flowers had come out under the genial influence of the warmth, and dispersed itself through the room. The sharp roll of cab and carriage wheels upon the road came deadened through the closed windows. Robert still knelt beside the bed, and still framed his wife's letter with his outstretched arms. The stir of expectation and preparation was audible downstairs. The dining-room door stood invitingly open, the fights burned brightly, the table was laid for three, and the snowy tablecloth and glittering glass looked not the least attractive among the items of the welcome prepared for the travellers. The little hall was lighted too, and the very porcelain tiles seemed to have been brightened for the occasion.
Half-past six.
Alice comes upstairs from the kitchen, opens the hall-door, and listens. The keen air comes in, but the old woman is not afraid of the keen air, and there is no wind. Soon she goes to the stair-head and calls,----
"Susan, your clock is slow. The down-train is just leaving the junction. They'll be here directly."
Susan answers from the bottom of the short staircase:
"Let 'em come. Dinner is all ready, and I doubt it'll be spoiled, if they don't come soon, by the time they've got their things off. Where's master?"
"In Miss Ellen's room; he's not to be disturbed till they come. O, he'll hear 'em fast enough. There, it's gone the quarter!"
Alice comes back to the door, and holding it a little ajar, continues to peep out. Many trains from distant places arrive about this hour, and she is disappointed several times by cabs, luggage-laden, which pass the gate.