No door ever opened on a better, or kinder, or more zealous village schoolmistress, than did this stately one on the spare, timid little body who now advanced. No one ever looked more placidly happy, and no one more pleased and grateful, when she was kindly placed in the most comfortable of chairs by Sir John, and welcomed with a cordial smile by his lady.
“I came up to tell you, sir, that everything was done as you desired. The children were so happy, it quite did one’s heart good to see them. They all came in the morning with evergreens and holly, and we made some beautiful wreaths to set off the room. Their new dresses look very nice, and they are truly thankful to you for your kindness. The coals and blankets, and other things, are all sent home too, and many say they shall thank Sir John for a happy Christmas; which they wish in return, with all their hearts, I am sure,” continued the good little woman, with emotion; “for, thank God, very few among them are ungrateful.”
Sir John’s benevolent countenance brightened with pleasure as he listened to the kind schoolmistress’s further recital of the village festivities, to which he had contributed so largely; and his wife marvelled how the heart of so good a man could be so unrelenting as she knew it was.
Perhaps similar thoughts were passing in the mind of Mrs. Hope; for after she had told all she ostensibly had to tell, and felt that it was time for her to depart, she still lingered, and yet hesitated to speak.
“Is there anything you wish to say to us, Mrs. Hope?” said the lady, kindly; “pray do not be afraid to mention anything in which we can be of service to you. Is your son——”
“I thank your ladyship, I was not thinking of him then, but of some one very different. I thought you might like to know, and yet was not sure—but Mr. Edward and his lady came over to the school-house to-day,” said she, as if from a desperate resolution, “and my heart was quite full to see them come and go away again like strangers—just at Christmas time, too!” Poor little Mrs. Hope trembled, for she saw that Sir John’s brow darkened, and he drew back in his chair in an agitated manner; but an encouraging look from the lady re-assured her. “It was very pleasant to see him again,” she continued, “in the little parlour where he often used to sit years ago, and give the prizes out to the children, and speak encouragingly to them. I thought he had forgotten the old place, and all he was so good to; but he told me he had been longing to see it, and never could feel so happy anywhere else.”
“Poor Edward!” said the lady, with emotion. “How does he look?”
“Very pale and delicate, ma’am; but just the same as ever—just the same noble look,” said Mrs. Hope, fast gathering courage, “although not quite so joyful like as it used to be. He made particular inquiries as to how his father and mother looked, and seemed terribly cast down when I told him how poorly you had both been.”
“Did he, indeed!” exclaimed Sir. John, starting from his seat, and pacing up and down; “why did you not let me know he was with you?”
“I feared you did not wish to know it,” was the reply. “But oh, Sir John! in my humble way I did think it strange that, in an erring world like this, your heart should be turned from two such children!”