Meanwhile, quite unaware of her mother's reflections or her father's opinions, Mary seated herself in a first-class carriage, her happiness in the prospect of the coming journey only clouded by the fact that her aged grandfather was approaching the borders of the grave.
They were alone in the carriage as far as Slough, and as the express train sped on the consciousness of this made her so uneasy that she could not help breaking the silence by saying—
"Papa, do you think my grandfather will remember me?"
"I think not, my daughter," he replied; "you were scarcely three years old when he saw you last, and now you are a woman."
"But I do hope he will be well enough to know who I am," she said. "I have heard mamma talk of grandpapa so often that I feel sure I shall recognise him when I see him, from her description."
"Your mother does talk to you, then, about her visit to Meadow Farm?"
"Yes, papa, often, and she says grandpapa was a fine, handsome old man when she saw him fifteen years ago."
There was a little feeling of gratification in Mr. Armstrong's heart at this proof that his lady-wife could so think of his father; she had often so spoken of him in conversation, but he had passed it by as the loving words of a wife who wished to prove that she did not look down with contempt on her husband's relations.
But in her remarks to Mary there could be no such motives, and it was in a tone of regret that he replied—
"Fifteen years will make a great difference in your grandfather's appearance, Mary, and I expect you will find him decrepit, and infirm at eighty-two years of age, and very much changed from the handsome old man your mother describes."