For a moment a feeling of terror seized her. It was so dark that she could not see clearly; the wind moaned among the branches of the leafless trees, and a superstitious awe seemed to freeze her senses. Then the old faith that her father was living, nay, did live, rushed to her heart with overwhelming force.
"Why," she said, with a little cry of joy, "'tis father himself. Father, dear father, don't you know me?"
"It can't be our little Millie. 'Tis, though, sure enough. Millie, my own precious child, I was told—"
You can imagine the rest for yourselves.
* * * * *
"Phil," said Millie, trying to tone down the happy ring in her voice, but which, nevertheless, would make itself heard, "I am afraid you have been dull all by yourself. Don't you want your tea badly? Why didn't you begin?"
"I waited for you. Why, how pretty you look to-night, Millie! The candle shines upon your face, and your cheeks have such a pretty pink colour in them, while as for your eyes, they sparkle like jewels. When I get better, I'll try my hand at painting your portrait."
"So you shall, dear. Phil, I have such good news for you."
"Have you? Is Miss Crawford coming down?"
"No, better news than that."