“Mr. Cyril said to give it to Miss Hawthorn,” stammered the old servant, his face lighting up as Billy entered the room; “but I'm sure he wouldn't mind your taking it.”
“I'm afraid I'll have to take it, Pete, unless you want to carry it back with you,” she smiled. “I'll see that Miss Hawthorn has it the very first moment she comes in.”
“Thank you, Miss. It does my old eyes good to see your bright face.” He hesitated, then turned slowly. “Good day, Miss Billy.”
Billy laid the package on the table. Her eyes were thoughtful as she looked after the old man, who was now almost to the door. Something in his bowed form appealed to her strangely. She took a quick step toward him.
“You'll miss Mr. Cyril, Pete,” she said pleasantly.
The old man stopped at once and turned. He lifted his head a little proudly.
“Yes, Miss. I—I was there when he was born. Mr. Cyril's a fine man.”
“Indeed he is. Perhaps it's your good care that's helped, some—to make him so,” smiled the girl, vaguely wishing that she could say something that would drive the wistful look from the dim old eyes before her.
For a moment Billy thought she had succeeded. The old servant drew himself stiffly erect. In his eyes shone the loyal pride of more than fifty years' honest service. Almost at once, however, the pride died away, and the wistfulness returned.
“Thank ye, Miss; but I don't lay no claim to that, of course,” he said. “Mr. Cyril's a fine man, and we shall miss him; but—I cal'late changes must come—to all of us.”