“Bring him to me,” she said. “Allow nothing—deny nothing. Leave me to deal with him.”
Rudolph dropped the curtain behind him, and silence fell upon the little house in Mark Lane.
A few hours earlier, our old friend Stephen, now a middle-aged man, had come home from his daily calling, to his house in Ivy Lane. He was instantly surrounded by his five boys and girls, their ages between six and thirteen, all of whom welcomed him with tumultuous joyfulness.
“Father, I’ve construed a whole book of Virgil!”
“And, Father, I’m to begin Caesar next week!”
“I’ve made a gavache for you, Father—done every stitch myself!”
“Father, I’ve learnt how to make pancakes!”
“Father, I stirred the posset!”
“Well, well! have you, now?” answered the kindly-faced father. “You’re all of you mighty clever, I’m very sure. But now, if one or two of you could get out of the way, I might shut the door; no need to let in more snow than’s wanted.—Where’s Mother?”
“Here’s Mother,” said another voice; and a fair-haired woman of the age of Countess, but looking younger, appeared in a doorway, drawing back the curtain. “I am glad you have come, Stephen. It is rather a stormy night.”