"Oh, Donald," Josephine broke in, paling to the lips, "there's nothing wrong, is there? There's no bad news of father? Oh, tell me it's not that!"
"No, no!" he cried reassuringly, "your father's safe and sound, and—why you've turned quite white! How silly! Go into the study! What are you waiting for? Hurry!"
But Josephine stood as though rooted to the ground, her lips parted, her ears strained—listening. From within the closed door of her uncle's study came the murmur of voices—Miss Basset's, Mr. Basset's, and one other's. Then, suddenly, a cry of intense joy burst from her lips, and, springing to the closed door, she flung it open, no longer pale, but with flushing cheeks and eyes full of yearning tenderness and love.
"Father, oh, father!" she cried, "you have come! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
She was in her father's arms by this time, half laughing, half crying, her head upon his breast.
"Come away!" said Miss Basset to her brother. Then, as he followed her from the room, closing the door behind him, she looked at him with her eyes full of tears, and sighed—
"Dear me! oh, dear me!"
"There's nothing for you to trouble about now, Ann," remarked Mr. Basset; nevertheless, his own sight was a trifle dim.
"No," she agreed, adding: "But I never until now realized how much she has missed him! Oh, poor little thing!"