"Are you not afraid?"
"No."
There is strangely much sometimes expressed, one can hardly say how, in the tone of a single word. So it was with this word, even to the ears of Eleanor in the next room. It was round and sweet, untrembling, with something like a vibration of joy in its low utterance. It was but a word, said in answer to a child's idle question; it pierced like a barbed arrow through all the involutions of another heart, down into the core. It was an accent of strength and quiet and fearless security, though spoken by lips that were very uncertain of their tenure of life. It gave the chord that Eleanor wanted sounded in her own soul; where now there was no harmony at all, but sometimes a jarring clang, and sometimes an echo of fear.
"But Mr. Rhys, aren't they very dreadful, over there where you want to go?" Julia said.
"Very dreadful; more than you can possibly imagine, or than I can, perhaps."
"Well I hope you won't go. Mr. Rhys, I think Mrs. Williams stays a great while—it is time the kettle was on for your tea."
Eleanor had hardly time to be astonished at this most novel display of careful housewifery on her little sister's part, whom indeed she would have supposed to be ignorant that such a thing as a kettle existed; when Julia came bounding into the outer room to look after the article, or after the old dame who should take charge of it. She stopped short, and Eleanor raised her head. Julia's exclamation was hearty.
"Hush!" whispered Eleanor.
"What should I hush for? there's nobody here but Mr. Rhys in the other room; and he was saying the other day that he wanted to see you."
Back she bounded. "Mr. Rhys, here's Eleanor in the other room, and no
Mrs. Williams."