The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne. Despatched in search of the truants, he had found Kate at the Vicarage, making much of the last new baby there, and devouring a sumptuous tea of cakes and jam. Miss West? Oh, Miss West was sitting in the church porch, talking to old Nancy Cale, she said to Harry.
“Why! What is it?” he exclaimed in dismay, finding that the burst of emotion which he had taken to be laughter, meant tears. “What has happened, Alice?”
She could no more have kept the tears in than she could help—presently—telling him the news. He sat down by her and held her close to him, and pressed for it. She was the daughter of George West, who had died in the dispute with Captain Monk in the dining-room at the hall so many years before, and who was lying here in the corner of the churchyard; and she had never, never known it!
Mr. Carradyne was somewhat taken to; there was no denying it; chiefly by surprise.
“I thought your father was a soldier, Alice—Colonel West; and died when serving in India. I’m sure it was said so when you came.”
“Oh, no, that could not have been said,” she cried; “unless Mrs. Moffit, the agent, made a mistake. It was my uncle who died in India. No one here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead. Oh, dear,” she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, “what am I to do now? I cannot stay at the Hall. Captain Monk would not allow it either.”
“No need to tell him,” quoth Mr. Harry.
“And—of course—we must part. You and I.”
“Indeed! Who says so?”
“I am not sure that it would be right to—to—you know.”