"I don't know how it is," she said at last, laying down the book, "but I seem quite blind. I can't see the print."
I could not see the needle-work I was bending over either. But that was because senseless tears kept on rising to my eyes, do what I would. Aunt Emmy's eyes had no tears in them.
"It is very petty of me, I know, but I do hope he has not grown stout," she said presently. "But of course it is to be expected, and if it is so I must try to bear it. It could not make any real difference. Your Uncle Tom is the same age, and of course he is not—he really is not as thin as he was."
"Was he ever thin?"
"N-no. But Mr. Kingston was, at least, not thin, but very spare and agile-looking."
At last the sound of wheels reached us. Aunt Emmy clasped the arms of her chair convulsively.
"I daresay he has not come," she said almost inaudibly.
The wheels stopped. I went into the tiny hall.
A tall, spare, distinguished-looking man, with weather-beaten face and peculiarly intent, hawklike eyes, was at the gate, and I went out to greet him. As he took off his cap his crisp hair showed a little grey in it. He was delightful to look at.
I don't know what I said, but I mumbled something as I shook hands with him, and pointed to the parlour door. He nodded gravely and went in, hitting his tall head against the low lintel. Then he closed the door gently. And I went to my room, and locked myself in.