Augusta, doubtless urged thereto by her sister, rose early enough to say farewell to her cousin. Sarah Keene watched her out of sight as well as she could through falling tears, and prayed for a blessing on her head, and Adelaide, bravely mounted beside Joyce in the shabby conveyance which took her and her luggage to the station, whispered cheery words to the very last moment, when, in company with Dobson, Mrs. Caruth's staid waiting-woman, she started on her journey.
Moved still further by the new and better feelings just born in her heart, Adelaide declined to drive with Mrs. Evans and Augusta, and went instead to meet her father on his return at noon.
It was a great surprise to Mr. Evans when he saw Adelaide's beautiful face glowing with eager expectation, in search of some traveller whose arrival she anticipated. He did not for a moment associate her presence with his own home-coming, until her eyes met his as the train stopped, and stepping forward, she exclaimed—
"Papa, I am so glad you are here safe and sound!" And lifting her face to his she kissed him lovingly again and again, then slipping her arm through his, went with him to the carriage which awaited them.
"That first kiss was poor Cousin Joyce's," she said. "She left it for you, and I promised to deliver it."
"Joyce's! She is surely not gone? I thought you would all have joined to keep her until my return. My only sister's only child to leave The Chase in such haste!"
"She could not stay. I tried hard to persuade her, for, papa, I am sorry I have not been kinder to Joyce. We are friends now, dear friends, and I hope we shall always be so. I cannot blame Joyce for going. How could she stay? But you do not know all yet. I trust things will turn out better than they seem to promise. I think I ought to tell you all about Joyce's birthday and what was said, only you must promise to say nothing to mamma. I cannot help thinking she is a little sorry now, and she is more likely to feel regret about Joyce's going if no one speaks of it."
Then Adelaide told her father all that had passed, and Mr. Evans listened, not altogether sadly, for his daughter made the most of all that had been bright for Joyce on her birthday—the loving letters and souvenirs from Welton, Mrs. Caruth's consideration for her cousin's safe convoy, the opening of hearts between themselves, and the new-born friendship, which was to bind them more closely than the ties of relationship had done.
"And," continued Adelaide, "Joyce will never disgrace the name she bears. I only wish I were more like her."
There was much to cheer Mr. Evans in what he heard from his daughter, and acting upon her suggestion, he made no allusion to Joyce's departure. His silence was both a relief and a reproach to his wife, who expected a scene, and was conscious that, in spite of her desire to free herself from a sense of responsibility, she could not even excuse herself for her treatment of Joyce.