Dr. Scaife was not a man of demonstrative habit; but, for once in his life, he literally gasped with surprise.
"Meg!" he stammered. "My own little Meg!"
He grasped her hands in both of his. A dozen questions were hovering on his lips, yet all he could find to say was:
"Is Mrs. Garth here, too?"
"No; mother comes to-morrow, or next day at latest."
"You intend remaining, I hope?"
"Well, our movements are rather erratic, but we shall have several opportunities of meeting you before we go."
Betty appeared, carrying a lamp, which she set on a bracket at the corner of the stairs. Scaife, still holding Meg's hand, drew her to the light.
"Come here!" he said. "Let me have a good look at you. Prettier than ever, 'pon me soul! And how is your dear mother? Where have you buried yourself all this time? How long is it? Two years! Never a line to a forlorn uncle, even at Christmas! I shan't forgive you to-morrow, but I'm so pleased to see you to-night that at present I'll forget your neglect."
"Uncle Ferdie, it was not my fault. Mother couldn't bear me to mention Elmdale or any of its associations."