"It is your son Edward. Father, how are you? This is my daughter, the little Mary of whom you were once so fond."
The old man looked up and grasped the hand of his son; then, as he saw Mary, he made an effort to rise.
"No, no, grandfather," she exclaimed, kneeling by his side and kissing his cheek; "you must try to forget I am taller and older than the little Mary you once knew."
"Thank God that I have lived to see you, my child," said the old man, laying his hand on her head, for Mary had thrown off her hat; "I thought you wouldn't bring her, Edward," continued the old man, in the tearful voice of excited old age. "But now you're come, my dear, we'll make you happy. You're like your mother, child. Dear me, how the time flies! Ah, well, I'm almost home now, and I feel like old Simeon, 'ready to depart in peace,'" and the voice had a choking sound as he paused as if for breath. Cousin Sarah approached.
"You must be quiet for a little while, uncle," she said, "and not excite yourself. I'm going to take Miss Armstrong upstairs for a few minutes till tea is ready, and Edward would like to go to his room, I daresay."
"Yes, yes, quite right, Sarah, I'll take care of myself," replied the old man. "I'm only a little overcome at first." And as they left the room he leaned back in his easy-chair and quietly watched the rosy country servant as she covered the table with a profusion of good things, such profusion as country people consider necessary to prove their hospitality.
Meanwhile Mary had followed cousin Sarah to a bedroom which, while it lacked many of the elegant luxuries of her own room at home, charmed her by its simplicity, cleanliness, and tasteful arrangements. The ceiling, across which appeared a large beam, was low, the floor uneven and only partially covered with a carpet. But through the lattice window the moonlight fell in diamond patterns on the floor, only broken by the shadow of the flickering rose-leaves that surrounded it. The dimity curtains, the quilt, the bed furniture, and the toilet covers were of snowy whiteness, and that peculiar fragrance of the country which is often found in country bedrooms pervaded the room.
Twilight still lingered, yet Mrs. John Armstrong carried a lighted candle which flared and flickered in the draught from the open window.
"I am sorry the window has not been closed, Miss Armstrong," she said, as she shaded the candle in her hand, and advanced to fasten the casement.
"Please call me Mary, cousin Sarah," said the young lady, earnestly; "and if you will put out the candle and leave the window curtains undrawn, I shall prefer the moonlight. Oh, what a pleasant window!" she added, as she looked out on the prospect so often described by her mother. "Did mamma sleep here?"