The heavy door swung open. Lucy had opened it, and Isabell, jealous and silent, stood behind.
“Come in; come home, Hew,” said Lucy Murray. “Let us enter our father’s house in peace and thankfulness as we left it with sorrow.”
They entered in silence, and silently the brother and sister went through the faded, dreary rooms; while the old woman followed them like a shadow.
Last of all they went into “Miss Lucy’s parlour.” It had no very sad associations for Hew. He remembered only the pleasant boyish evenings spent in it, the sadness of the parting, which now, so far away, was softened into a tender memory, making its scene not mournful, only dear; and Hew lifted the window and stepped happily out upon the terrace, while Lucy seated herself on the old high-backed chair at the old work-table, to ponder on the old times. To her the room was full of dim days well remembered—girlish griefs and solitudes, struggles which no one witted of—they seemed to have been dwelling here like so many pale ghosts, waiting for her coming, to remind her of their former selves.
A touch on her sleeve roused Lucy from her reverie. Isabell was looking down earnestly into her silvery, gentle face.
“Leddy—Madam,” said the old woman, with a husky voice, “you didna mean you? You wasna saying that you’re Miss Lucy?”
“I am Lucy Murray grown old,” was the answer, “and that is my brother Hew, Isabell, whom we lost in India. Could you forget Hew? Do you not know Hew, Isabell?”
“And Murrayshaugh?” gasped the old woman.
“My father is dead; he lived until ten years ago, and when he died was a very old man, Isabell, and a gentler one than he used to be. Will you welcome me now?”
Timidly, and still a little jealous, the housekeeper consented to meet with a hasty touch the white hand of the old lady whom she feared; and then Isabell abruptly left the room.