“Stasy!” he exclaimed. “My little Stasy, at last!” And Stasy the younger, glancing up, saw the words were not addressed to her.
“Mamma, mamma!” she exclaimed. “You see who it is, don’t you? Isn’t it delightful? We have been longing for you to come in; but I’ve been telling Sir Adam everything.”
For a moment or two Mrs Derwent could scarcely speak. Meeting again after the separation of a quarter of a century must always bring with it more or less mingled emotions, and in this case there was much to complicate Mrs Derwent’s natural feelings. It was not all at once easy to throw aside the apparent neglect of her once almost fatherly friend, which for long she had explained to herself by believing him dead; and yet here he now stood before her, her hand grasped in both his own, the tears in his kind old eyes, as moved as herself—to outward appearance, even more so.
“Stasy,” he repeated; “my dear little girl, can you ever forgive me? I have not really forgotten you.” This appeal to her generosity was all that was required.
“Dear Sir Adam,” she said, “I never really doubted you.”
“Until quite lately, you know,” he went on, “of course I thought things all right with you, always excepting, of course, your great sorrow some years ago. And I was pretty ill myself for a good while. I am stronger now than I have been for years past, thanks to all the ridiculous coddling the doctors have insisted on, as if my life was of much value to any one.”
“I am so glad,” said Mrs Derwent fervently.
“Well, upon my soul,” he replied, “I think I shall begin to be glad of it myself. I feel as if I’d got something to do now, besides running about from one health-resort to another.”
He started, as at that moment Blanche entered the room.