Mr. Villars raised his head, as she entered, and, after a quick greeting, went on with his writing. Across and across the paper went the unwearying hand. She stood at the other side of the table, hoping he would look up and say something—but he still continued writing.
On went the bells—from the venerable and gray stoned Abbey belfry—from the good, old-fashioned, little church of Walcot—and, far as the ear could reach, from the ivy-covered tower on the hill—on they went—and Mr. Villars continued writing—and Mabel stood irresolute, for all her eloquence was gone; but, at length, she stammered forth—
"Uncle, will you come to church?"
He looked up—her very soul was in those few words—and in the tearful eyes which seconded her request.
On went the bells.
He laid down his pen, and looked at her—but her eyes were fixed upon the ground.
"Who is going?" he said, at length, looking more fixedly.
"Lucy and I."
"Very well then, make haste and put on your bonnet, for I hear the bells."