"Ah!" said Lupin.
Mr. Oakley knocked at the door, and, as one of the family had seen him through the blinds of the parlour-window, he was at once admitted, and kindly received by those who knew him and his worth well. He asked, in an odd gasping manner, that Mr. Lupin might have permission to come in, which was readily granted; and with a solemn air, shaking his head at the vanities he saw in the shape of some profane statuary in the hall, the preacher followed Oakley to the dining-room.
It was an aunt of Arabella's to whom they were introduced, and, with a smile, she said—
"Really, Mr. Oakley, a visit from you is such a rarity that we ought not to know how to make enough of you when you do come. Why, it must have been Christmas twelvemonths since you were last beneath this roof. Don't you remember when your dear, good, pretty Johanna won all hearts?"
"Yes, yes," said Oakley, glancing triumphantly at Lupin. "My dear child, whom all the world loves—God bless her!—She is pure, and good, and faultless as an angel."
"That, Mr. Oakley," said the lady, "I believe she is. We are as fond of her here, and always as glad to see her, as though she belonged to us. Indeed, we quite envy you such a treasure as she is."
Tears gushed into the grateful father's eyes, as he heard his child—his own Johanna—she who reigned all alone in his heart, and yet filled it so completely—so spoken of. How glad he was that there was some one besides himself present to hear all that, although that one was an enemy! With what a triumphant glance he looked around him.
"Humph!" said Lupin.
That humph recalled Oakley to the business of his visit, and yet how hot and parched his lips got, when he would have framed the all-important question, "Is my child here?"—and how he shook, and gasped for breath a moment before he could speak.
At length, he found courage—not to ask if Johanna was there. No—no. He felt that he dared not doubt that. It would have been madness to doubt it, sheer insanity. So he put the question indirectly, and he contrived to say—