She turned, for the voice seemed to come from the woods. But seeing no one, she fancied the note of some bird had followed her.
Again the sound. Her name; and Reymund’s voice. “He has come,” thought Orient, with a thrill of unsuspected pleasure, “and he is calling me from the garden.” And she made all haste to answer the summons in person. Going along, then, with her boughs of bright leaves, she wished she had not delayed so long in the woods,—her dress so soiled, and her hands, her hair so disordered; she resolved to steal in at the side door and freshen her toilet before greeting him. As the door was opened to her, “Mr. Reymund has come,” said the maid, gleefully. “I have just let him in. He is waiting in the drawing-room.”
“Very well,” answered Orient. “Tell him I will be there directly.”
She hastened towards the staircase, boughs in hand.
“You haven’t seen your friend?” asked her aunt, passing her on the landing as she sped up.
“No,” replied Orient again; “have you?”
“I just met him in the hall as he was entering the drawing-room,” said the good woman, calling over the balusters and going her way.
Orient hurried at her bath, clad herself with all despatch, and put on a garment whose airy frills and ruffles made her look like a white rose. As she went by her mother’s room, the mother looked out and said, lightly, “Reymund has come. Did you know it?”
“Yes, mamma,” she answered. “Why didn’t you go and make him welcome?”
“O, my hair was all down!” said the other. “I just caught a glimpse of him, passing the foot of the stairs as he went into the drawing-room.”