“Who is he? who is he?” exclaimed Anne eagerly.
Archibald looked at her in amazement. “My employer and friend, Mr. Sinclair, Anne. What is the matter? I have come home with him at his own special desire. He intends—”
Jacky had been hovering on the stairs. She came up to the door where they were standing, and looked at them wistfully, “Oh if ye please, Miss Anne—”
“What is it, Jacky?”
Jacky could not tell what it was. She sat down on the stair, and put her hands up to her face, and began to cry—her excitement overpowering her.
“I cannot bear this,” said Anne, wringing her hands nervously. “Jacky,” she whispered in her ear—the girl shot down stairs like a spirit.
“Anne!” exclaimed Archibald, “something ails you. I beg you to tell me what it is.”
“Afterwards—afterwards—” said Anne, hastily. “Go in now, Archibald. Jacky, come—”
Jacky returned, leading little Lilie by the hand. Archibald in silent amazement, went in again to the inner drawing-room. Anne followed him with the child, her face deadly pale, her form trembling.
Mrs. Catherine had changed the position of the lights on the table—one of them threw the profile of the stranger in clear shadow on the wall—she was looking with a singular scrutiny on the face, and on the shade of it. Little Alice Aytoun looked almost afraid. Mr. Sinclair was as confused and agitated as ever.