“And Isabel!” said Mary, rustling round upon him as she walked. “What a great dame she is become! I used to lie on her bed and kick my heels and laugh at her; but now I would like to say my prayers to her. She is somewhat like our Lady herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm and tender.”
Mr. Buxton nodded sharply.
“I felt sure you would feel it,” he said.
“Ah! but I knew her when she was just a child; so simple that I loved to startle her. But now—but now—those two ladies have done wonders with her. She has all the splendour of Mary Maxwell, and all the softness of Margaret.”
“Yes,” said the other meditatively; “the two ladies have done it—or, the grace of God.”
Mary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little.
“Yes—or the grace of God, as you say.”
The two laughed into each other’s eyes, for they understood one another well. Presently Mary went on:
“When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn frigid like so many holy folk—or peevish and bewildered like stupid folk—but she just looks at us, and laughs far down in those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! I love her!” ended Mary.
They walked in silence a minute or two.