“On Monday, Miss Morgan.”
“Little Nan,” I said, turning to the child, “I mean to come to see you at your own house on Monday. You may expect me, for I shall be sure to come; and I’ll bring you pictures—lots; and if you like, I can show you how to colour them.”
I thought this offer must charm Nan, and make her forget the terrors of the mine; but it did not. She looked gravely, almost fretfully at me, and it was Miles who said, “Thank you.”
“I must go now,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I have stayed too long already; but I’m very glad I have met you, Miles, and Nan. I think your Stephie a real, real hero; and, Miles, I love you for being so brave, and I should like, beyond anything, to shake hands with you, and to kiss little Nan.”
After clasping a small brown hand, and pressing a warm salute on two trembling lips, I started home. The children’s story had excited me, and warmed my heart. For the present it absorbed my thoughts, even to the exclusion of Owen. I said I would do much for these two. This boy and girl, so lonely, so interesting, with their tragic story and tragic life, should find in me a benefactor and friend. The thought was delicious and exhilarating. David, through my intervention, should rescue Miles from the miner’s life, and relieve the timid little sister from her worst fears. My spirits rose high as I contemplated this event, which a word from my lips could bring about. I entered the house humming the wild sweet air which the children had set to their Methodist hymn. The music of my voice was greeted by the richer music of gay and happy laughter. I stood motionless in the hall. My heart almost ceased to beat, then bounded on wildly. The colour fled from my cheeks and lips, returning in a moment in a full tide of richest crimson. I could have given way then. I could have rushed to Owen’s side, thrown my arms round his neck, and wept out on his breast, a whole flood of healing and forgiving tears. Had I done so, my soul would have been knit to his with a love strong as the old love was weak—noble as the old passionate affection was erring and idolatrous; but I did not. I conquered the emotion, which the sound of his voice, and his laughter, had stirred within me. I told myself that that was not my Owen—mine, my hero was dead. Untidy, pale, agitated, but unforgiving, I opened the drawing-room door and went in. David, mother, and Owen, were standing in a loving, happy group. I went up to the group—they had not heard me come in—and touched Owen on the sleeve, and said, in a quiet voice, “Welcome home, brother.”
For an instant two bright, dark eyes looked expectantly into mine—one instant the brilliant eyes wore that look—one instant after, they were blank with disappointment. Then all was commonplace—a commonplace, but affectionate brother’s kiss was on my cheek, and a gay voice said, laughingly—
“Why, Gwladys, you’re as wild and disreputable-looking a little romp as ever.”