Eustace was so upset by his mother's words that he could not get to sleep for hours. They seemed to hold a reproach specially for himself—for had he not been the first to terrify his mother? It was not a good record to present to his father; and he had meant to be such a stand-by and comfort. With all his heart he echoed Mrs. Orban's wish. He had dreaded his father's going away; he longed for his return.
The very next day the wish was fulfilled. News came up the hill that the plantation schooner had been sighted the evening before; she was in the bay. By midday the travellers had arrived, and the climax of the great excitement was reached.
Every one had wondered a hundred times and more what that first greeting would be like—what words would be said. As a matter of fact, when the time really came, nobody said anything at all except Mr. Orban, who exclaimed when he caught sight of his wife, "Darling, what is the matter? You are looking ill."
But Mrs. Orban stopped him with the promise to tell him everything later on. Meanwhile she nearly wept for joy over the meeting with Aunt Dorothy, and was far too happy to remember or speak of the distresses of the past week or so.
The children hung back shyly and stared at the new-comer—a tall, slender girl, dressed, Nesta afterwards commented, just like a person in a story book, so dainty was she.
Dorothy Chase was not at all like Mrs. Orban. She was certainly pretty, but the most remarkable thing about her was her expression, so vivacious was it, so keenly interested and alert. She was a great contrast to the people amongst whom she had come, for tropical heat saps a good deal of the enthusiasm of life out of people—even the children were subject to lassitude.
They looked a quiet enough set as Miss Chase cast a quick searching glance around her after greeting her sister, and there flashed through her mind a contrast between them and the nephew and niece she had left but a few weeks ago in England—the children of another sister, orphans who lived with their grandparents in the old home.
"Well, chicks," said Aunt Dorothy, with a laugh, "who is going to speak to me first?"
They were standing, all in an untidy row, Becky, with one finger in her mouth, hanging on to Nesta's skirt.
To the new-comer they looked pasty-faced, spiritless beings. The prints that the girls were dressed in were rather washed out; Peter had outgrown his suit. They were ill-clad, shy, and awkward.