"My kind friend, no," said Kate, leaning her head on Mrs. Winter's shoulder, "you have brought me all I want—the sense of home. I will rest during the three weeks we are to be here—rest profoundly—and, at the end of that time, you shall have, please God, a rosy, cheerful—" she paused, and added, enquiringly, "daughter."
Winter took her hand, and pressed it gravely and affectionately, as if accepting her; his wife kissed her cheek, and there was a silence of deep feeling.
"Now I must write."
"Who to?" asked Winter.
"Georgy and nurse."
"Very well; tell the latter (may she not, Sue?) that the moment we are settled at A——, We will summon her to wait on our daughter."
"Yes—I shall be proud to have her about you, she is excellent," returned his wife.
And Kate wrote. Oh, how vain all language to depict the gratitude with which she wrote; yet she would fain have despatched an order for nurse's immediate return to her; but she was pleased, right well pleased, to have so near a prospect of re-union before her.
And peacefully did the days glide over, and pleasant too, though London wore its November gloom—without might be fog and damp, cold winds and muddy streets—within were bright fires and calm, full hearts. Kate, in spite of herself, felt, at times, restless to know more of Egerton, though she could not bring herself to speak of him; but then she had so much to hear from Winter; so many exquisite sketches to examine; so much to discuss, relative to a picture he intended exhibiting next Spring; new books, reviews, and music, amongst which to revel, so that her mind was well filled.