"So be it," acquiesced Oscar. "It is the only thing. He may listen to you."
So Oscar Dalrymple stayed with them at the Grange until the Monday, revelling in the society of the one only being he loved on earth—Selina.
Mrs. Dalrymple had made ready for the journey—and how fervent, how imploringly earnest her prayers were that it might bear happy fruit, she and Heaven alone know. They all sat down to an early breakfast: even Alice, whose lameness was an apology for not rising betimes in general. In the midst of breakfast, James came in, and looked at Oscar Dalrymple.
"Will you please to step here, sir, for a minute?"
"What for?"
"Just for a minute, sir," repeated the man; and his eyes seemed to telegraph a momentary entreaty with the words.
Oscar went out hurriedly, for there was no time to spare, and the carriage to take them to the station had already come round. James shut the door.
"Here's Reuben come down, sir, by the early train," he whispered. "He told me to fetch you out to him, quietly, but not to say who it was."
Oscar walked quickly across the hall. Reuben awaited him in an empty room.
"What is it, Reuben? What has brought you from town?"