The events of former years were scarcely ever alluded to; Marion’s twins were painfully like their little cousin buried in the African desert; but no one spoke of him. The children lived almost in Eleanor’s room.
One evening, after she had gone upstairs to dress for dinner, these little creatures detained her till the second bell rang. Her hair was hanging over her dressing-gown, and, finding that she could not possibly be in time, she ran to Marion to say she would join the little circle at tea.
“Marion! Marion!”—but Marion had gone. Ormsby’s study door was open; there was a light within! She called to him—no answer.
The children ran up to her; they threw the door wide open; two wax-lights were burning on the table, and before the fire stood Frankfort.
And for the first time for many long years Eleanor uttered a cry of joy.
She forgot that she was in her dressing-gown, that her hair hung disordered about her, that the children were half-frightened at the sight of a stranger.
Frankfort opened his arms again to her—
“Never again to part, Eleanor,” said he.
“Never, never,” she answered.
He strained her to his breast, and her tears of unutterable joy mingled with his kisses.