His hand trembled as he pulled the bell, and his heart beat with heavy, painful strokes, so many memories, both sweet and bitter, agitated him.
A servant let him quietly in, and an ominous stillness at once struck a chill to his heart.
“Is Mr. Dalton living?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, but very low,” was the reply.
He led him to the same little reception-room where he had seen Editha on that day before Christmas, and where she had given him that little bunch of holly, and wished him, not the stereotyped “Merry Christmas,” but “peace, good-will to men,” instead.
It came to him now, that sweet message, with strange vividness, and he grew suddenly calm and solemn as he realized that he had indeed come with “peace” in his heart, and “good-will” toward one who had been his life-long enemy.
He gave his card to the servant, and then sat down to wait. Would Editha come to greet him? he asked himself, and would he be able to meet her as a brother should meet a sister?
Fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a door softly opened again. Earle turned, his heart leaping to his throat, but it was not Editha.
He saw a strange but noble-looking woman coming toward him, and wondered to see her there.
He bowed courteously, but she cordially extended her hand, as her eyes sought his card, which the servant had given her, and upon which was simply engraven the two names he had always borne. He made no display of his title, nor of his new position.