While the two soldiers were chatting about the past and present of the Institute they arrived at its door.
“Here we are. Come into the reception-room, Miles, while I make inquiry about my letters.”
They entered the house as he spoke. The reception-room is on the right of the passage. Armstrong opened the door and looked in, but, instead of advancing, he stood transfixed, gazing before him open-mouthed as though he had seen a spectre, for there, in front of the fire, sat a beautiful, refined-looking girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, gazing pensively at the flickering flames.
Miles was not kept long in suspense as to who she was.
“Emmy!”
“Oh, Willie!”
These were exclamations which would have revealed all in a moment, even though Emmy had not sprung up and rushed into Willie’s open arms. How she ever emerged from the embrace of those arms with unbroken bones is a mystery which cannot be solved, but she did emerge in safety, and with some confusion on observing that Miles had witnessed the incident with admiring gaze!
“Never mind him, Emmy,” said the young soldier, laughing; “he’s a good friend, a comrade. Shake hands with him.”
The action, and the ease of manner with which Emmy obeyed, proved that grace and small hands are not altogether dependent on rank or station.
“Excuse me,” said Miles, after a few words of salutation; “I’ll go and have a look at the library.”