The child's words were very pathetic, and so, yielding to her wish, the Blakes returned to town.
Winnie sighed her satisfaction when safely deposited in the oak parlour once more. Then the old life began again—the same, yet not the same; for although everything around was as it had been in the bygone days, Winnie herself was changed, and the busy, active life over for ever. But she had her happy times too; for the oak parlour was rapidly becoming the room of the household, and Winnie seldom knew what it was to be left alone. Thither came Aunt Judith with her soft, gentle words; Nellie, fresh from the dear home circle, her troubles all blown away by the happy home atmosphere; Edith and Clare, with their gay young voices and dainty ways; and all the members of the family, slipping in every now and then to see how the little invalid was progressing. Her quiet submission was daily becoming more patent; and as those around noted the efforts at cheerfulness and patience, their love gradually increased, and Winnie the invalid was tenfold dearer to the hearts of her family than Winnie the little tomboy had been. Her days were not idle ones by any means; for as her health in some respects improved, a daily governess was engaged to come and instruct her, and under Miss Montgomery's mild tuition Winnie laid aside her former indolence and began to show an interest in her studies.
The papers were eagerly scanned now for news of the expected ship, but the days sped on and still nothing was heard of the longed-for vessel. At length, however, one evening in the beginning of October, when the gray twilight was creeping silently over the busy town, Edith and Winnie were together in the oak parlour—the one sitting toasting herself cosily at the fire, the other lying on her invalid couch half-asleep. Downstairs in the large drawing-room a few guests were assembled, and the sound of voices singing floated sweetly upwards and fell soothingly on the sick girl's ear.
"Edith!" she said, opening her sleepy eyes for a moment, "I wish you would go down beside the others and enjoy yourself. I feel in a deliciously comfortable mood just now, and will not miss you at all. Do obey me!" and she looked fondly over at the pretty figure basking lazily in the firelight glow.
Edith roused herself. "I should like to join them for a short time, Win; but it seems selfish leaving you all alone, and nurse is too busy to come and sit beside you just now."
"Oh, I shall not weary," was the bright reply; "besides, the music will lull me to sleep in a few minutes. Run away, and think of me as enjoying my forty winks."
The elder sister rose, and kissing Winnie's little face, went slowly from the room, along the passage, and down the broad carpeted stair. She had hardly entered the drawing-room and returned the greetings of the merry guests, when a loud ringing at the door bell was followed by the heavy tread of a man's foot in the hall, and the next minute Richard Blake strode into the gaily-lighted room and confronted the assembled company.
"Just like the old Dick," thought his brothers and sisters, rising to welcome the young sailor, whose sun-tanned face was shining with honest delight. "Fancy stalking into a drawing-room in rough sea-faring clothes, and startling every one with his sudden appearance." But in spite of such condemnation their welcome was hearty and genuine; for the boy looked so happy and overjoyed himself, it was impossible not to be infected with his gladness of heart.
"Straight from the ship," he explained to his step-mother, standing like a young hero in the midst of the gay company, with a great joy rippling over his kindly face. "Got into dock only this afternoon; and here I am, turned up again like the old sixpence.—Any yarns to spin? you ask. Why, any amount. But in the meantime I am desperately hungry, and could relish a hearty meal." Then turning to Edith: "Where is Winnie? Up in the oak parlour, I suppose. Well, I'm off to her at once. She ought to have been the very first to bid me welcome."
A silence fell on all, and looks were exchanged of mingled sorrow and perplexity.