“Oh, thank you; you are a perfect darling!” said Nora. “I'll come and see you some day when I am happy again, and tell you all about it.”
“Bless your kind heart, honey! I'm glad to be able to do something for those who are in trouble. Now then, lie down and have a bit of sleep. I'll wake you sure and certain, and you shan't stir, the two of you, until you have had a hot cup of tea each.”
Mrs. Terry was as good as her word. She called the girls in good time, and gave them quite a comfortable breakfast before they started. The tea was hot; the bread was good—what else did they want?
Nora awoke from a very short and broken slumber.
“Soon I shall be back again,” she thought. “No matter how changed and ruined the place is, I shall be with him once more. Oh, my darling, my heart's darling, I shall kiss you again! Oh! I am happy at the thought.”
Mrs. Terry herself accompanied them to Euston. It was too early to get a cab; she asked them if they were good walkers. They said they were. She took them by the shortest routes; and, somewhat tired, but still full of a strange exultation, they found themselves at the great station. Mrs. Terry saw them into their train, and with many loudly uttered blessings started them on their journey. She would not touch anything more than the five shillings, and tears were in her eyes as she looked her last at them.
“God bless them, and particularly that little Irish girl. Haven't she just got the cunningest, sweetest way in all the world?” thought the good woman. “I do hope her father will be better when she gets to him. Don't she love him just!”
Yes, it had been the most daring scheme, the wildest sort of adventure, for two girls to undertake, and yet it was crowned with success. They were too far on their journey for Mrs. Hartrick, however much she might wish it, to rescue them. She might be as angry as she pleased; but nothing now could get them back. She accordingly did the very best thing she could do—telegraphed to Mr. Hartrick to say that they had absolutely run away, but begged of him to meet them in Dublin. This the good man did. He met them both on the pier, received them quietly, without much demonstration; but then, looking into Nora's anxious face, his own softened.
“You have come, Nora, and against my will,” he said. “Are you sorry?”
“Not a bit, Uncle George,” she answered. “I would have come against the wills of a thousand uncles if father were ill.”