“And this one,” continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to Kitty—“this one, Griselda? Katharine, you need not speak.”
“This one,” continued Miss Griselda, “has the weakness and effeminate beauty of my dead brother Valentine.”
“Kitty isn’t weak,” interrupted Rachel; “she’s as strong as possible. She only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill for a little because she was very hungry. Please, old man, stop staring so hard and let us go now. We want to find our grandfather.”
But instead of letting Rachel go Squire Lovel stretched out his hand and drew her close to him.
“Sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure,” he muttered, “and you are my grandchild—the image of Rupert; yes, the image of Rupert Lovel. I wish to God, child, you were a boy!”
“Your grandchild!” repeated Rachel. “Are you my grandfather? Kitty, Kitty, is this our grandfather?”
“Him’s pain is better,” said Kitty. “I see a little laugh ’ginning to come round his mouth. Him’s not cross. Let us kiss our grandfader, Rachel.”
Up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round Squire Lovel’s neck.
“We have found our grandfather,” said Rachel. “Now let’s go downstairs at once and bring mother up to see him.”
“No, no, stop that!” said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself from the pretty embrace. “Griselda and Katharine, this scene is too much for me. I should not be agitated—those children should not intrude on me. Take care of them—take particular care of the one who is like Rupert. Take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not let the mother near me. I’ll have nothing to say to the mother; she is nothing to me. Take the children out of the room and come back to me presently, both of you.”