"Good morning, little girl. So you got home all right that day." He rose, smiling. The advantage was his with a vengeance: poor reward for my self-sacrifice in allowing him a simultaneous first-sight, when I might have peeped from my window, discovered who he was and got through my first excitement alone.
"You!" I gasped, "you're Lord Tawborough?" My amazement was shot through with enjoyment of Aunt Jael's.
"Yes, that's the grand name I told you of. I'm not a duke, you see, only a humble lord. I'm so sorry; Tawborough hasn't got quite the swing of Medin-a Sidon-ia, I must admit. I'm sorry, Your Grace."
"You," I echoed, doubting if all this were not a dream. I clutched for a moment to see if I could feel the side of my bed.
"Come now, child, explanations are due. What's this mean? There's been concealment here."
"'Tis time to be off, Jael," whispered Grandmother, "twenty past."
"You must explain on the way; your lordship is ready too?" The first sentence was spoken with usual harshness slightly modified for the hearing of visitors, the second with an interesting mixture of deference and command.
We sallied forth. Lord Tawborough on the outside, then Aunt Jael, then Grandmother, then myself. On the way, he related briefly his encounters with me, omitting with admirable reticence his purchase of Westward Ho! and our visit to my mother's grave. Our entry into the Room was stately, triumphant and restrained. In the Book of Judgment there is a big black mark against Aunt Jael in that she did forget she was entering the Lord's house, in her majestic obsession that she was entering it with a lord. A biggish black mark against my name too. Grandmother alone of the four of us has a clean white space. For the Stranger too was proud—proud that he was not too proud to mind entering a Brethren meeting-house with humble folk, the pride of having no pride, the last pride of all—a huge mark his, black as night. Marks against all the Saints' names too, even in that gathering of devout souls I could see that there were none, excepting always my Grandmother, who did not turn from holy thought for an odd moment now and then to note their noble visitor: to feel a worldly interest in his presence. More appropriately I could see them observing with regret that he did not Break Bread (though of course he could not—it would have been wicked if he had) and with pleasure that he was not allowed to give to the box. Despite the glint of a gold guinea, Brother Brawn snatched our four-mouthed monster proudly away from his outstretched hand; we would not take gold from a sinner, albeit a peer.
In almost all the prayers that morning sorrowful reference was made to his lordship: it was hoped that in His own good time the Lord might turn him to Himself. After every such reference came "Ay-men! Ay-men!", Salvation bellowing loudest.
I was too preoccupied pondering on the extraordinary fact that the Stranger, my mother's little friend, and the sixth Lord Tawborough, were one and the same person, to pay much heed to the service. One feature, however, stands in my memory: an eloquent utterance by Brother Briggs, who on this occasion outshone himself: shining face (remember he was an oilman) and shining words alike. His voice roared through the Room.