They soon reached the house. The footman, Watson, sprang down and lowered the steps. Sibyl bounded out and flew into the hall.
“Father, father!” she called. “I’m back. Are you in, father? Here I are—Sibyl. I’m home again, father. The Angel is home again, father.”
She did not often call herself the Angel, the name seemed to have more or less slipped out of sight, but she did on this occasion, and she threw back her pretty head and looked up the wide staircase, as if any moment she might see her father hurrying down to meet her.
Mrs. Ogilvie turned to one of the servants, who was watching the child in astonishment.
“She does not know yet,” whispered Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am going into the library; don’t tell her anything, pray, but send Miss Winstead to me immediately.”
Mrs. Ogilvie entered the library. Sibyl danced in after her.
“I can’t see father anywhere,” she said: “I ’spect he’s not back yet.”
“Of course he is not back so early. Now run upstairs and ask Nurse to make you ready for tea. Leave me, I have something to say to Miss Winstead.”
Miss Winstead appeared at that moment. She had enjoyed her holiday, and looked the better for it. Though she understood Sibyl very little, yet at this moment she gazed at the child almost with alarm, for Mrs. Ogilvie had written to her telling her that Mr. Ogilvie’s absence had not been alluded to in the child’s presence.
Sibyl rushed to her and kissed her.