“Be there anything else wanted, missis?”
“No,” snapped Mrs. Rymer. “You can be off to bed.”
But, before the girl had shut the parlour-door, a loud ring came to the outer one. Such late summonses were not unusual; they generally meant a prescription to be made up. Whilst the girl went to the door, Margaret closed the Bible, dried her eyes, and rose up to be in readiness.
But instead of a prescription, there entered Mr. Benjamin Rymer. His mother stood up, staring, her hair a mass of white corkscrews. Ben clasped Margaret in his arms, and kissed her heartily.
“My goodness me!” cried Mrs. Rymer. “Is it you, Ben?”
“Yes, it is, mother,” said Ben, turning to her. “Maggie, dear, you look as though you did not know me.”
“Why, what on earth have you come for, in this startling way?” demanded Mrs. Rymer. “I don’t believe your bed’s aired.”
“I’ll sleep between the blankets—the best place to-night. What have I come for, you ask, mother? I have come home to stay.”
Margaret was gazing at him, her mild eyes wide open, a spot of hectic on each cheek.
“For your sake, Maggie,” he whispered, putting his arm round her waist, and bending his great red head (but not so red as his mother’s) down on her. “I shall not much like to lose you, though, my little sister. The Bahamas are further off than I could have wished.”