"I heard your voice, Langley, and so I followed you in," he said gravely, looking at her and not at Queenie. All at once he seemed embarrassed and ill-at-ease, his usual assurance had left him.
"Now you have come you must both stay," replied Queenie brightly; she had recovered from her momentary agitation. "Langley has brought me a very sad account of poor little Bessie. I must go down there the first thing in the morning."
"Where is Emmie?" asked Garth, looking longingly at the empty rocking-chair, but not daring to take possession.
Langley's cloak still hung round her in straight long folds, she stood quietly warming herself by the fire, looking down on the flame with a thoughtful, intent face.
"Emmie is tired and has gone to bed. Do you know," looking up at Garth rather sorrowfully, "that I am afraid that she is not as strong as she ought to be. I have been telling Langley so. I often find her lying on the rug in the twilight, and yet she will have it she is only tired."
"She is growing so fast; children are often languid at that age: you must not be over-anxious," he returned kindly.
"How can I help it? she is all I have," replied the girl, turning from him to hide the tears in her eyes.
The kindness of his tone had brought them there. Garth looked after her wistfully, but he said no more.
"Come, Garth, it is late, and we must not stay," exclaimed Langley, rousing herself. She put her hand on his arm and drew him gently on without seeming to notice his reluctance.
Queenie stood in the porch and watched them till they were out of sight.