“You give me a chance of seeing my grand-children playing about the old garden, do you, eh, Guildford?” asked the invalid, with an affectation of cheerfulness which did not conceal his real anxiety.
Miss Methvyn was standing at some little distance, too far off to overhear what was said, still Mr. Guildford lowered his voice as he replied,
“Certainly, I do, my dear sir.”
Colonel Methvyn closed his eyes and leaned back. “I think I could die happily if I could see it so,” he murmured. Then as if afraid of having betrayed too much feeling, he went on speaking. “It is a curious thing how few sons there have been in our branch of the family. I was an only son, and so was my father; this place came to him from his mother, and now there is only my little girl there for it to go to.”
“But, happily, that prevents any fear of its going to strangers,” said Mr. Guildford, more for the sake of showing interest in his companion’s train of thought, than from any special remembrance of his remarks.
“Of course, of course,” replied Colonel Methvyn, “of course that could never be. It was a foolish idea that crossed my imagination. I grow morbid, quite ridiculously morbid sometimes.”
He spoke with a nervous eagerness that made Mr. Guildford regret the observation he had made, and he was glad that just at this moment Cicely rejoined them.
“Here is mother coming,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Guildford, will you help me to move papa a yard or two this way, and then she can see him all the way from the house? You have sent Barry in? Ah, that’s right! it is so much more comfortable without him. Mr. Guildford and I can push you beautifully, can’t we papa?”
Her father laughed.
“Is there anything you don’t think you can do for me better than any one else, my darling?” he said fondly, stroking the fair head, as Cicely knelt on the grass beside him, looking up in his face with bright tenderness in her blue eyes.