“No, I had a substantial breakfast on the train, and would like to see my sister as soon as possible,” he replied.
“Oh, then you may come upstairs at once. The sight of you will be good for her old eyes.”
He followed her up to the sick-room, that Rachel Dane had made as cheerful and bright as possible, and there lay poor Mrs. Flint among her pillows, wan and aged in the three years that had elapsed since last they met, but with a light of joy in her dim eyes as they [rested] again on his face.
“My dear sister!”
And he stooped and kissed her most affectionately.
“How long you have been away—you and Cinthy!—and I have missed her so, dear girl, though maybe I wasn’t none too good to her when she was here, but I thought she ought to be brought up strict,” she murmured, plaintively.
“It was my fault. I told you to do it,” he answered, with a sigh; and his eyes wandered around the room, noting vases of hot-house flowers and plates of fruit, purple grapes, contrasted with the delicate green of malagas, golden oranges, and crimson-cheeked apples.
“You have kind neighbors,” he said.
“Oh, yes; all the church people come to see me, and the preacher—though Rachel there doesn’t care about him,” reproachfully. “Mrs. Bowles, the housekeeper at Idlewild, comes often, too. She brought me the fruit and flowers from up there. Her mistress sent them—that grand Mrs. Varian, you know. I think it was kind in her after the way you treated her son.”
“Yes,” and he paled to the lips under his rich brown beard. “Well, and so they are there still?”