The same questions were asked day by day, on either side, when Mr Hampton returned to The Mynns from his daily visits to town.
“Any news?”
“No.”
“Any news?”
“No.”
But, somehow, it was observed that Gertrude did not appear at all low-spirited. In fact, as each day glided by she seemed to become more hopeful and buoyant. There was a new light in her eyes, and as Mrs Hampton watched she often caught sight of a pleasant, satisfied smile playing about the girl’s lips which had never appeared before.
Every now and then her voice rang through the old house, as she sang some ballad; but her happiest moments seemed to be those when she daily took Bruno down the garden for his bask on the lawn, and a dreamy look stole over the girl’s face as she knelt down by the dog, and laid her hand on his damaged head just in the same way as she had seen other hands laid one day, that seemed now long ago.
She could kneel thus and dream happy day-dreams, again and again—dreams of which she never tired, and all the time the sun shone down and glorified her luxuriant hair, gave beauty to her graceful form, and made the dark yew hedge glisten as if frosted with silver, the velvet lawn seem of golden green, and the great, red brick wall, that lay between her and the road, glow and show up the neatly-trained trees.
A new life seemed to have dawned for her, and the sunshine brightened her darkened heart as she bent over and caressed the dog—lifting playfully first one and then the other of his long, soft, hairy ears to whisper with girlish glee:
“Yes, some day, Bruno—some day he will come again.” Then she looked round, almost with a guilty start, but only for the former restful look of happiness to come back.