“Uncle!” she said, opening the gate, “you do not know our old friend, Mr. Gabriel Harford.”
Gabriel looked in amazement at the dear familiar face in the grey and pink hood, at the trim erect figure in the old grey gown, outlined against the arch of dark yew. Surely that white hand holding open the gate was an emblem of hope? Surely he could read signs of love in the bright eyes and in the glowing cheeks?
“Hilary!” he cried, with a choking sensation in his throat. “Are you here?”
He bent down and kissed her hand, and they were both relieved when the Vicar came to the rescue.
“Captain Harford! Why, this is excellent hearing. I had no notion, sir, what your name was, but if aught could make my rejoicing greater, it would be the knowledge that this kindly deed was done by one well known to my dear sister now at rest, this child’s mother,” and he took Hilary’s hand caressingly in his.
“I will see if dinner is ready,” she said, nervously.
“No, child, I must myself go in, and will speak to Durdle. Do you entertain Captain Harford. You were children together and will have many a matter to talk over, I’ll warrant.”
He went into the house, and Gabriel drew a little nearer to Hilary.
“Your uncle does not know, then, that we were ever more to one another than just playmates?” he said; and as for an instant she glanced at him, she saw how much he must have gone through since their last parting.
“No,” she replied, shyly. “He never heard about it. So much has passed since then. You had tidings of my dear mother’s death, Gabriel?”