Ah, the crafty man! The last item had a golden sound in it.
"Honour bright, Hartledon?"
"Honour bright! You shall never want for anything as long as you live. But you must not"—he seemed to search for his words—"you must undertake not to come here, upsetting and indulging the children."
"I'll undertake it. Good vintage, mind."
"The same that you have here."
The countess-dowager beamed. In the midst of her happiness—and it was what she had not felt for many a long day, for really the poor old creature had been put about sadly—she bethought herself of propriety. Melting into tears, she presently bewailed her exhaustion, and said she should like some tea: perhaps good Mr. Carr would bring her a teaspoonful of brandy to put into it.
They brought her hot tea, and Mr. Carr put the brandy into it, and Anne took it to her on the sofa, and administered it, her own tears overflowing. She was thinking what an awful blow this would have been to her own mother.
"Little Maude shall be very dear to me always, Val," she whispered. "This knowledge will make me doubly tender with her."
He laid his hand fondly upon her, giving her one of his sweet sad smiles in answer. She could at length understand what feelings, in regard to the children, had actuated him. But from henceforth he would be just to all alike; and Maude would receive her share of correction for her own good.
"I always said you did not give me back the letter," observed Mr. Carr, when they were alone together later, and Val sat tearing up the letter into innumerable bits.