'There is the lantern,' she said to Agnes, 'just by the vicarage. How the night has cleared!'
She turned back to her book. Agnes was writing letters. Mrs. Leyburn was sitting by the bit of fire that was generally lit for her benefit in the evenings, her white shawl dropping gracefully about her, a copy of the Cornhill on her lap. But she was not reading, she was meditating, and the girls thought her out of spirits. The hall door opened.
'There is some one with Catherine!' cried Rose, starting up. Agnes suspended her letter.
'Perhaps the vicar,' said Mrs. Leyburn, with a little sigh.
A hand turned the drawing-room door, and in the doorway stood Elsmere. Rose caught a gray dress disappearing up the little stairs behind him.
Elsmere's look was enough for the two girls. They understood in an instant. Rose flushed all over. The first contact with love is intoxicating to any girl of eighteen, even though the romance be not hers. But Mrs. Leyburn sat bewildered.
Elsmere went up to her, stooped and took her hand.
'Will you give her to me, Mrs. Leyburn?' he said, his boyish looks aglow, his voice unsteady. 'Will you let me be a son to you?'
Mrs. Leyburn rose. He still held her hand. She looked up at him helplessly.
'Oh, Mr. Elsmere, where is Catherine?'