'Twenty-two,' said Lucy.
'You might just as easily be twelve,' he said, 'except for the sorts of things you say.'
'It's my hair,' said Lucy. 'My father liked—he liked——'
'Don't,' said Wemyss, in his turn taking her hand. 'Don't cry again. Don't cry any more to-night. Come—we'll go in. It's time you were in bed.'
And he helped her up, and when they got into the light of the hall he saw that she had, this time, successfully strangled her tears.
'Good-night,' she said, when he had lit her candle for her, 'good-night, and—God bless you.'
'God bless you' said Wemyss solemnly, holding her hand in his great warm grip.
'He has,' said Lucy. 'Indeed He has already, in sending me you.' And she smiled up at him.
For the first time since he had known her—and he too had the feeling that he had known her ever since he could remember—he saw her smile, and the difference it made to her marred, stained face surprised him.
'Do that again,' he said, staring at her, still holding her hand.