“Yes, sir, thank Heaven! and, madam, your dear lady, I am so proud——”
“My daughter, my daughter, Mrs. Steadfast—a mere child when last you saw her.”
Flora put aside her veil, that the old servant, who had many a time held her in her arms, should see her face, and the changes that time had made in it.
The housekeeper uttered an exclamation, and muttered—“The very counterpart!” Then she turned to old Wilton, and said—
“But your dear lady, my loved and honoured young mistress, sir; for young she was when last I saw her.”
Wilton removed his hat, and, gazing upwards, said in a low, impressive tone, yet tremulous with intense feeling—
“She is in heaven!”
There was a solemn stillness for an instant.
The housekeeper raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and Flora gently stole her hand into her father’s, and pressed it.
Then the old man, with a burst of anguish, hurried up the staircase, and, parting in broken sentences with his daughter for the night, sought the retirement of the room prepared for him, and there battled with his sorrow alone.