“Run you in, Mrs Edith, my dear,” said she; “you’ll find the mistress in the Credence Chamber. Eh, she has wearied for you!—Good evening, Madam, and I’m fain to see your Ladyship again. Would you please to allow of my help in ’lighting?”
While Rebecca and Hans assisted her mother to descend, Edith ran into the house with as light and fleet a step as if she were fourteen instead of forty, and entered a large, low chamber, hung with dark leather hangings, stamped in gold, where a bright lamp burned on a little table, and on a low couch beside it lay an old lady, covered over with a fur coverlet. She had a pleasant, kindly old face, with fresh rose-colour in her cheeks, and snow-white hair; and her face lighted up when she saw Edith, like a candle set in a dark window. Edith ran to her, and cast her arms about her, and she said, “My Edith, mine own dear child!” as tenderly as if she had been her own mother.
Lady Louvaine followed her daughter, leaning on Hans and Rebecca, who took her up to the couch, and set her down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions, which stood close beside, as if it were there on purpose. She laid her hand upon Joyce’s, who fondled it in both hers. Then Joyce gave a little laugh.
“Lettice, dost thou wonder to hear me laugh?” asked she. “I seemed like as if I saw, all at once, that sunshine afternoon when thou earnest first over from the Manor House, sent of my Lady Norris to make friends with us. Dost remember?”
“And thou earnest tripping lightly down the stairs, clad of a russet gown, and leddest me up to see Anstace. ‘Do I remember it!’ Ah, Joyce, my sister, there be sore changes since that day!”
“Be there so?” said Joyce, and smiled brightly enough. “A good number of miles nearer Home, Lettice, and a good number of treasures laid up for both of us, where neither moth nor rust shall hurt them. My treasures are all there which are not likewise thine. And now let me see the new gems in thy jewel-box. Who art thou, my maid?”
“I am Lettice Murthwaite, Madam, if you please.”
“My dear heart, I do not please to be called Madam. I am thine Aunt Joyce. Come here and kiss me, if thou wilt.”
Lettice knelt down by the couch, and kissed the old lady.
“There is not much of Nell here, Lettice,” said Joyce to Lady Louvaine. “’Tis her father the child is like. Now then, which of these two lads is Aubrey—he with the thinking brow, or he with the restless eyes?”