Before Peggy could answer, the door of the dwelling opened and Mistress Owen herself appeared on the threshold. There were lines of care and grief in her face, and Peggy was shocked to see that her hair was entirely white, but in manner she was as serene as of yore.
“I thought——” she began, but at sight of the slender maiden advancing toward her, she grew pale, and leaned against the door weakly. “Peggy?” she whispered.
“Mother! Mother! Mother!” screamed the girl springing to her arms. “Mother, at last!”
Her mother clasped her close, as though she would never let her go again, and so they stood for a long time. Presently Peggy uttered a little cry. “Harriet!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I had forgotten Harriet.” She ran quickly down the steps, and putting her arm around her cousin drew her up the stoop toward Mistress Owen.
For the briefest second a shadow marred the serenity of the lady’s countenance. Then, as she noted the girl’s wasted form, her glance changed to one of solicitude and she took Harriet into her motherly arms.
“Thou poor child,” she said gently. “Thou hast been ill.”
“I feared you would not want me,” faltered Harriet, the ready tears beginning to flow.
“We have always wanted thee, my child, when thou wert thine own true self,” answered the lady. “But come into the sitting-room. Sukey shall bring us some tea and thou shalt rest while Peggy and I talk. Thee must be tired.”
“Tired?” echoed Harriet, sinking into the great easy chair which Peggy hastened to pull forward. “Tired?” she repeated with a sigh of content as the exquisite peacefulness of the room stole over her senses. “I feel as though I should never be tired again. ’Tis so restful here.”
“It’s home,” cried Peggy, dancing from one object to another in her delight. “And how clean everything is! Was it always so, mother?”