The low, half-terrified exclamation came from Edna. I turned to her. Her eyes were strained on the stranger; her face had turned white as death. He saw us then, and came towards us. We were the nearest to him.
“Do you know me, Edna?”
I knew him then: knew his voice. Ay, and himself also, now that I saw him distinctly. Edna did not faint; though she was white enough for it: she only put her hands together as one does in prayer, a joyous thankfulness dawning in her eyes.
“Frederick?”
“Yes, my darling. How strange that you should be the first to greet me! And you, Johnny, old fellow! You have grown!”
His two hands lay for a time in mine and Edna’s. No one had observed him yet: we were at the end of the lawn, well under the trees.
“More syllabub, Edna!” shrieked out that greedy young Charley.
“And me want more, too,” added little Miles; “me not had enough.”
Edna drew her hand away to go to the table, a happy light shining through her tears. Fred put his arm within mine, and we went across the grass together.
The first to see him was Mr. Brandon. He took in the situation at once, and in a degree prepared Mr. Westerbrook. “Here’s some bronzed young man coming up, Westerbrook,” said he. “Looks like a traveller. I should not be surprised if it is your nephew; or perhaps one who brings news of him.”