"Look, Couthin!" cried Cecil, "God's mending her already!"
"Pray Heaven He does!" answered Margaret, under her breath. Then, after seeing the boy clasped in his mother's arms, she turned for a last look at the scene which she had left with reluctance, for it was one of the inconsistencies of Mistress Brent's practical nature to love the poetry of the twilight, and to be willing to barter all the noon-day hour for that last swift dip of the red sun behind the hills.
To-night she stood with head thrown back and chest expanded, as though she were physically breathing in the beauty around her. The rose-purple of a moment since had narrowed to a single crimson bar, stretched above the opal barrier of the hills, athwart the deep yellow of the sky.
"The walls were of jasper, and the city was of pure gold like unto clear glass!"
"Supper, Couthin Marget! and wheaten porridge. Come in with speed!"
"Peace, poppet! Who talks of porridge in the New Jerusalem!"
"But this is not the New Jerusalem, only the ragged little village of St. Mary's." It was Elinor's voice that answered, and Margaret rejoiced to catch a strain of oldtime lightness in it. Moreover, the promise of the voice was fulfilled as they sat at the supper-table, for Elinor was as one who has shaken off a burden. Her gown was of a rich red that might have been stolen from the sunset, and in her hair she had set a wing of the cardinal tanager. Around her neck hung a single ruby.
"Truth, Elinor, thou art like a flame to-night," exclaimed Margaret as Cecil drew out a stool for her at the table.
"'Tis time, Cousin. Poor Cecil hath had too much of shadow in his little life. Now, I am fain to throw some brightness into it, if 'tis but a red gown and a tanager's wing."