A sobbing, joyous embrace, and she was swept up-stairs, where even the London lodging looked homelike under Mrs. Winter's benign influence. Then came the plentiful tea—hot cakes, and broiled ham and eggs, with mulled port for the lady, and brandy-and-water for the gentleman—and the delicious confusion of cross questions, and most irrelevant answers—and the mingling of tears and smiles!
"Now you must go to bed," said Winter; "see, it is long past one—and that poor child has been in constant agitation all day—she has not a vestige of color in her cheeks."
"Indeed, my dear, you look ill—yes—you must go to bed," observed his wife, with her usual kindly precision, which nothing but the actual excitement of the moment of meeting could break through, and which Kate recognized joyfully as an old friend.
"The sober certainty of waking bliss," may well be weighed against the agony of first waking after grief. And Kate lay for some time, the next morning, comparing this Sunday with the last; then her thoughts flew to nurse, and she sprang up to communicate to her the joyful news of her emancipation.
"Ah! I have heart to write now."
Winter and his wife soon asked for a fuller and more connected account than she had yet given them of her life since they had last met; and though it cost her many tears, the recital did her good. How clearly through it all could she trace the guiding of Almighty love, ever hovering near to interpose its aid when the bowed spirit failed beneath its burden. No, they were not bitter tears she shed that morning. And, sometimes, her eyes would sparkle brightly through them, as she recounted nurse's undeviating self-devotion and unfailing truth. She thought little of herself during the narration, nor dreamt it was the quiet, undaunted heroism her words involuntarily displayed—the heroism of exhaustless love, careless of its own wealth, that drew such quick sobs from Mrs. Winter, and made her good little husband wink his eyes, and blow his nose, so furtively, and so often.
Both the artist and his wife perceived there was some mystery attached to Kate's separation from Lady Desmond, into which they must not pry; and so, with praiseworthy self-denial, accepted, unquestioned, the account she chose to give of her wish to be independent, &c., &c., &c.
"I feel I neglected you, my dear Kate," said Winter, as she paused, wearied by her long recital, "but the perfect content of your last letter induced me, without any fixed plan, to ramble on and on, like some butterfly attracted from flower to flower, lost in a rich profusion of magnificent subjects. Madame bore it all wonderfully; I owe her much for her patience; and I intended every day, for the last six weeks, to write and tell you what time we had fixed on for our return, though I fancied, from what you last said, that you and Lady Desmond intended to leave England, and ramble God knows where; therefore, I always thought it better to wait; as you were in good hands, a few weeks, one way or the other, would make no difference—so I loitered on, scarcely hoping to find you in England on my return; at last we found ourselves at Gibralter, so late in the year, and so tired of knocking about, that we took the Peninsular and Oriental steamer, and, after a tedious passage, arrived here, as I told you, last Wednesday. In three weeks, I trust, the house in the Abbey-gardens will be free, and then, with God's blessing, we will keep Christmas thankfully in the old place—would you like this?"
"If you had read my most inmost wish for the coming season, which I so dreaded, it would be to spend it where I was so happy, and grandpapa so respected."
"But, my dear," said Mrs. Winter to her husband, "don't you think Kate ought to have advice? She changes color so, and her pulse is very irregular."