“Here we are,” said the curate blithely as the panting mule drew up before a gate in a wall, all covered with ivy or some other creeping plant, Jennie could not see what.
Beyond the gate and the wall was the front of a two-story, double stone house, like the wall, all covered with creeping vines, but with a bright firelight and lamplight gleaming redly from the windows of the lower room on the right-hand side.
The curate lifted his daughter and her child from the carryall and opened the gate that led between two low stone walls, also covered with green creepers, up to the steps of the long porch before the house. But some one in the house had heard the sound of wheels, for the front door was flung open, a small, slender woman rushed out and threw herself, sobbing, into the arms of Jennie.
“Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling!”
“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”
That was all they could say, as they clasped each other, sobbing.
Mr. Campbell went on before them into the house, carrying the baby out of the night air.
“Come in, come in, come in! Oh, welcome home, my child! my child!” sobbed the mother, as, with her arm around the waist of her daughter, she supported her into the house, through the hall and into that warm, bright room, where a sea coal fire was blazing in the grate, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling just over a dainty white cloth that covered the tea table, on which a pretty china service was arranged.
The parlor was furnished entirely in crimson—carpet, curtains, chair and sofa covers were all crimson, which, in the lamplight and firelight, gave a very warm, bright glow to the room, which the travelers had seen from the carryall without.
Jennie was placed in an easy-chair, and her fur-lined cloak and beaver hat taken off her by gentle mother hands. Even in that sacred moment of meeting, the feminine instinct caused the curate’s wife to hold up and admire the rich cloak and hat that had been given Jennie by her New York friends.