“Well, let him come in, Charity,” said Lady Louvaine smiling.
Charity drew back, and admitted a man of about five-and-twenty years, clad in respectable but not fashionable garments, and with an amused look in his eyes.
“I do believe your maid thinks I’ve come to steal the spoons,” said he. “I could scarce win her to let me in. Well, does nobody know me? Don’t you, Grandmother?”
“Why, sure! ’tis never David Lewthwaite?” responded Lady Louvaine in some excitement.
“’Tis David Lewthwaite, the son of your daughter Milisent,” said he, laughing.
“Why, who was to know you, my boy?” asked his Aunt Edith. “We have not seen you but once since we came, and you have changed mightily since then.”
“When last we saw you,” said Temperance, “your chin was as smooth as the hearthstone, and now you’ve got beard enough to fit out a flock of goats.”
“Ah! I’d forgot my beard was new. Well, I have been remiss, I own: but I will expound another time the reasons why you saw us not oftener. To-night, methinks, you’ll have enough to do to hearken to the cause which has brought me at last.”
“No ill news, David, I trust?” asked his grandmother, growing a shade paler.
“None, Madam. And yet I come to bring news of death.”