Margaret is on her feet in a moment, with the light of a different love, something of the old romance, in the glad surprise, "Oh, darling, it is you!" and her arms are about his neck, and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and in his face for a moment, is reflected the glory of that delighted smile.
"Yes, darling. Are you better?"
"Oh, yes—ever so much; I'm always well when you are here; and look, see our poor little darling."
"So he is."
"We have had such fun with him—haven't we, Anne? I'm sure he'll be so like you."
"Is this in his favour, cousin Anne?" asked Cleve, taking the old lady's hand.
"Why should it not?" said she gaily.
"A question—well, I take the benefit of the doubt," laughed Cleve. "No, darling," he said to Margaret, "you mustn't sit on the grass; it is damp; you'll sit beside our Cousin Anne, and be prudent."
So he instead sat down on the grass, and talked with them, and prattled and romped with the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to convey him to the nursery, and he was handed round to say what passes for "Good night," and give his tiny paw to each in turn.
"You look tired, Cleve, darling."