‘What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?’
‘Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays begin?’ I whispered.
Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.
‘If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you home Charlie.’
‘And you are not afraid of him?’
‘Afraid!’ The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she ejaculated the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea, when they caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a thousand little joys instead.
‘There he is!’ she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me with her.
He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within sight of us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by, open-mouthed with astonishment.
‘My angel,’ he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close to his; ‘life has been insupportable without you.’
‘Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to get back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to welcome him home.’