“I’m nurse to the heir, Mr. Laurens—little Sir Cecil Trueheart!”
He brushed past her, with a smothered sigh to the memory of his wife, and went up the broad stone steps. Presently he found himself waiting in a stately reception-room for the coming of the mistress of The Oaks.
While he waited, he stood at the window watching Phebe and her little charge as they strolled upon the terrace. He murmured to himself, with a thrill of pride:
“Somewhere in England, I have a little son as beautiful and noble, doubtless, as this little heir of a noble line.”
The door opened. A graceful lady in lustrous blue velvet came slowly toward him over the velvet carpet.
At first sight of her there flashed over him the words of the young English girl, his brother’s wife:
“The most beautiful lady in England!”
Dark, curling hair, dark, dreamy eyes, and a face the saddest his eyes had ever seen. She came slowly on until they were face to face, then a cry of passionate joy came from the lips of each:
“My wife!”
“My husband!”