Mrs. Artress looked upon this little scene with an air of disgust, and with a little sniff hastened up the stairs to the apartments of Lady Wynde.
“Your rooms are ready, Miss Neva,” said Mrs. Hopper—“your old rooms. I made sure you wanted them again, because poor Sir Harold furnished them new for you only four years ago. I will go with you up stairs.”
Neva led the way, tripping lightly up the broad steps, and flitting along the wide upper hall.
Her rooms comprised a suit opposite those of Lady Wynde. Neva opened the door of her sitting-room and went in. The portly old butler was arranging wreaths of flowers about the pictures and statuettes, but turned as the young girl came in, and welcomed her with an admixture of warmth and respectfulness that were pleasant to witness. Then he took his basket of cuttings and withdrew, the tears of joy flooding his honest eyes.
The girl’s sitting-room had been transformed by the loving forethought of the butler into a very bower of beauty. The carpet was of a pale azure hue starred with arbutus blossoms, and the furniture was upholstered in blue silk of the same delicate tint. The pictures on the walls were all choice and framed in gilt, and with their wreaths of odorous blossoms, gave a fairy brightness to the room. The silvermounted grate was crowded thickly with choice flowers from the conservatory, whose colors of white and blue were here and there relieved with scarlet blossoms like living coals. The wide French windows, opening upon a balcony, were open.
“Ah, this is home!” said Neva, sinking down upon a silken couch, and looking out of one of the windows upon the lawn. “I am glad to be back again, Hopper, but it’s a sad home coming. Poor Papa!”
“Poor Sir Harold!” echoed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes. “If he could only have lived to see you grown up, Miss Neva. It was dreadful that he should have been taken as he was. I can’t somehow get over the shock of his death.”
“I shall never get over it!” murmured Neva softly.
“I am making you cry the first thing after your return,” exclaimed Mrs. Hopper, in self-reproach. “I hope those tears are not a bad omen for you, Miss Neva. I have arranged your rooms,” she added, “as they used to be, and if they are not right you have only to say so. You are mistress of Hawkhurst now. Did you bring a maid from Paris, Miss Neva?”
“No, Mrs. Artress said it was not necessary, and my maid at school did not wish to leave France. Mrs. Artress said that Lady Wynde had engaged a maid for me.”