"I'm fond of her," pursued Harold.
"So am I," exclaimed Owen, walking across the room impatiently. "But why doesn't she come? Where is she? Do you know?"
"Yes," replied Harold, with deliberation; "I know."
"What can that man be about? He can't have given her the message!" said Owen, speaking half to himself, his nervous impatience rising with every minute of delay.
Harold looked profoundly astute, as he answered, with a series of emphatic nods, "No; he didn't. He took the card to Smithson; and I know what Smithson will do; she'll read it first herself, and then she'll take it to mamma, and then perhaps mamma will tell May—if you're a—what is it?—a proper person. Are you a proper person?"
"I say," said Owen suddenly, "will you go and fetch May? Tell her Owen is here waiting. Do go, there's a good boy!"
"Is May fond of you?" inquired Harold hesitating.
"May will be pleased with you if you go and fetch her. Run! Be off at once now—quick!"
After one searching look at Owen's face, the child disappeared swiftly and silently. In less than two minutes a light footstep was heard descending the stairs at headlong speed. The door opened, and May, almost breathless with haste and surprise, half stumbled into the dark room, and he caught her in his arms.
"Is it really you?" she exclaimed, looking up at him with one hand on his shoulder, and the other pushing back the hair from her forehead.