“You began the secrets first, Hamish.”
“Did I? Well, let us thank Heaven that the worst are over.”
Ay, thank Heaven! Most sincerely was Arthur Channing doing that. The time to give thanks had come.
Meanwhile Mr. Huntley had proceed home. He found Miss Huntley in the stiffest and most uncompromising of moods; and no wonder, for Mr. Huntley had kept dinner waiting, I am afraid to say how long. Harry, who was to have dined with them that day, had eaten his, and flown off to the town again, to keep some appointment with the college boys. Miss Huntley now ate hers in dignified displeasure; but Mr. Huntley, sitting opposite to her, appeared to be in one of his very happiest moods. Ellen attributed it to the fact of Mr. Channing’s having returned home well. She asked a hundred questions about them—of their journey, their arrival—and Mr. Huntley never seemed tired of answering.
Barely was the cloth removed, when Miss Huntley rose. Mr. Huntley crossed the room to open the door for her, and bow her out. Although he was her brother, she would never have forgiven him, had he omitted that little mark of ceremony. Ellen was dutifully following. She could not always brave her aunt. Mr. Huntley, however, gave Ellen a touch as she was passing him, drew her back, and closed the door upon his sister.
“Ellen, I have been obliged to take Mr. Hamish into favour again.”
Ellen’s cheeks became glowing. She tried to find an answer, but none came.
“I find Hamish had nothing to do with the loss of the bank-note.”
Then she found words. “Oh, papa, no! How could you ever have imagined such a thing? You might have known the Channings better. They are above suspicion.”
“I did know them better at one time, or else you may be sure, young lady, Mr. Hamish would not have been allowed to come here as he did. However, it is cleared up; and I suppose you would like to tell me that I was just a donkey for my pains.”