"I feel as if I had found my rest."
"Dear white-winged dove," was the reply, "if you have been wandering over stormy waters tempest-tossed, let me love to think you have found your rest with me."
They were now at the door of Mrs. Travers's house; Leslie knocked, and it was opened by the old servant, who followed his young master wherever he went—a faithful retainer of the old type of servant, who, through every change and chance, would as soon think of cutting off a right hand as forsake his master's son.
Giles had a most comical face—a mass of furrows and wrinkles, a mouth which had very few teeth left, and small twinkling eyes. He wore a scratch yellow wig, and a long coat with huge buttons, on which was the crest of the Travers—a heron with a fish in its beak—a crest suggestive of the land of swamps and marshes, where herons had a good time, and swooped over their prey with but small fear of the aim of the sportsman—so few were the sportsmen who ever invaded those desolate wild tracks of water and peat-moss.
"Aye, Master Leslie," Giles said, "ye're late, and there's company at dinner."
"It is scarcely one o'clock, Giles. Where is my mother?"
"Up above with the company; and not well pleased you are not there, either."
"Oh!" Griselda said; "I do not wish to stay. Please take me back to the Parade! Let me see Mrs. Travers another day, please. I ask it as a favour."
She pleaded so earnestly, that old Giles interposed:
"There's room at my mistress's board for all that care to come. There never yet was a guest sent away for lack of room."