The expressive face lit up with smiles again, as Catherine cried,—
'How kind you are! But please, please, don't worry over me. I believe you are often quite unhappy for my sake, just because my stepfather squandered all my money. Dear Mrs. Arderne, money doesn't matter, it really doesn't. If I were delicate, unable to earn my living, I might merit pity, but not as I am. Why, I've never been ill in my life, and I'm so happy always, that it's not the least bit of a wonder that I feel I must thank God every minute for all His goodness to me!'
Mrs. Arderne gave an impatient shrug, and hastily kissed her companion's rosy cheeks.
'Child, you are rather ridiculous sometimes. There, good-night. That "fly" has been at the door five minutes, and I shall be late for Mrs. Dumbarton's dance.'
Catherine ran out into the hall to wave a hand as her employer and friend was driven away, then went upstairs again to peep at the children, to whom she was devotedly attached. Six-year-old Ted was slumbering quite peacefully, his usually mischievous expression having given place to a seraphic smile. As the girl bent above him he laughed in his sleep, so she dared not linger by his side, lest he might wake to clamour for the history of Jack and the Beanstalk all over again.
Passing into the inner room, she found 'Toddie' (otherwise Nora) likewise wrapped in slumber, and not in danger of being disturbed by a kiss. Toddie was a very calm, sensible little person, a model of deportment and good conduct, compared with that enchanting rebel Ted, who was but one year her junior.
Presently Catherine stole away, into the sanctum of her bedroom; and there, kneeling on the hearth, with her hands stretched out to the blaze of a glorious fire, she gave herself up to pleasant thoughts, many of which were connected with the portrait of Brian North, which occupied the place of honour on the mantelpiece.
It was a fine photograph. The keen eyes looked straight out at the observer, with an earnestness of gaze betokening earnestness of purpose. The features and contour of the face were both delicate and strong; and the mouth, sensitive as well as resolute, was shadowed, not hidden, by the dark moustache.
This young man was an intellectual worker—a journalist by profession, an author by predilection—and already the dark hair over his brow was streaked with grey, though he was only thirty.
From her kneeling posture on the rug Catherine, looking up at the portrait, mentally apostrophized it.