“Oh, yes, indeed; that is just what I want.”
“It is to be selections from ‘Henry V.,’ ‘The High Tide,’ ‘Locksley Hall,’ I think, and a few lighter things. You will think that you would rather elocute ‘The High Tide’ than even to have written it.”
“That is impossible. Did you tell Dine?”
“No, but I will. It was proper to ask the elder sister was it not?”
“I am not Leah,” said Tessa seriously, “call Rachel.”
“Rachel! Rachel!” he called, beckoning to Dinah. Dinah whistled by way of reply and dropped Norah’s arm.
“Have you brought me Mother Goose or a sugar-plum?” she asked lightly. “And why do you call me Rachel?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, children,” said Mr. Wadsworth very gravely. The color deepened in Mr. Hammerton’s cheeks and forehead as he met the old man’s grave eyes. “Mother, let’s you and I go too,” proposed Mr. Wadsworth, “we will imagine it to be twenty-seven years ago.”
“I only wish it was,” was the dissatisfied reply.
That evening was an event in Tessa’s quiet life: she heard no sound but the reader’s voice, she saw no face but his; she drew a long breath when the last words were uttered.