'Miss Wyndham cannot see any one to-night,' said Mr. Crayshaw, impatiently.
'Oh yes, I can,' said Angel rising, 'only I don't know who it can be. Where is he, Patty?'
'I showed him into the dining-room, Miss Angelica; he came on here from the cottage, he says.'
Angel went out of the room and across the hall to the dining-room; the front door was open, and across the still meadows the church bells were ringing, for the news of a victory in the Peninsula had reached the village that evening. Angel wondered as she listened if there were many in England who heard through the joyous peal the sound of a bell tolling for some one whose life or death meant more to them than victory or defeat.
'God help them all!' she whispered to herself, for she was one of those whose tender sympathy grows wider at the touch of their own sorrow.
The dining-room was almost dark. Patty had put a candle on the table, but its rays hardly reached the end of the room. The shutters were not closed, and outside it was starlight, as it had been on that Christmas night when she and Godfrey and the captain looked at the Plough shining over the homes of Oakfield. The strange visitor was standing by the table. He turned when Angel came in and gave a great start as he saw her standing there in the doorway, dressed as she had been when Godfrey saw her first, in a white gown with black ribbons, and with the chain round her neck on which she always wore the miniature of her brother. He did not speak, so she said:
'You wished to see me, sir?'
'Yes,' began the stranger hurriedly; 'you are Miss Wyndham, I am sure—Miss Angelica Wyndham. I came—I wished—I once knew some relatives of yours in the West Indies.'
'My brother,' said Angel, faltering a little. Was this a friend of Bernard's come to ask for Godfrey?—and Godfrey was gone.
'Your brother, yes; I knew him very well.'