“Yes, dear”—but Margaret spoke absently—“but you do not ask me what I have been doing, Raby.”
“No”—very slowly; and then, with a touch of sadness: “I begin to think it is better not to ask.”
“Poor fellow”—laying her hand on his arm caressingly. “Yes, I understand you are beginning to lose hope. What did I tell you last night—that it is always the darkest the hour before dawn. Do you remember how fond Crystal was of that song? Well, it is true, Raby; I have been stopping away for some purpose this afternoon. Crystal and Miss Campion are here.”
“Here!” and at Raby’s exclamation more than one head turned in the direction of the brother and sister.
“Yes, in W——. Do not speak so loud, Raby; you are making people look at us. Take my arm, and we will go into the shrubberies; no one will disturb us there.” And as she guided him down the steps, and then crossed a secluded lawn, Raby did not speak again until the scent of the flowering shrubs told him they had entered one of the quiet paths leading away from the house.
“Now, tell me, Maggie,” he said, quickly; and Margaret obeyed at once.
“I was at the station, as we planned, and saw them arrive; so for once the information was correct. Crystal got out first, and went in search of the luggage. I concealed myself behind a bale of goods—wool-packs, I believe—and she passed me quite closely; I could have touched her with my hand. She looked very well, only thinner, and I think older; it struck me she had grown, too, for she certainly looked taller.”
“It is possible; and you really saw her face, Margaret?”
“Yes; she was looking away. She is as beautiful as ever, Raby. No wonder people stare at her so. She is as much like your ideal Esther as she used to be, only there is a grander look about her altogether—less like the girl, and more of the woman.”
“Ah, she has suffered so; we have all aged, Maggie. She will think us both changed.”