“Harry,” said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. “I must go to Janet.”
“It would be a comfort to her if you could,” said Harry, gravely.
“And to me,” said Graeme. “I shall go early to-morrow.”
There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away. Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,—
“Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?” she pleaded; “you will never go and leave me here?”
So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well.
Chapter Forty One.
September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on Mrs Snow’s pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour—dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands.