Flora Lyndsay was aroused from the passionate indulgence of grief by two arms being passed softly around her neck, and some one pulling her head gently back upon their shoulder, and kissing her forehead.
“Flora,” whispered a sweet, gentle woman’s voice; “Dear Flora. I am come home at last. What, no word of welcome? No kiss for Mary? In tears, too. What is the matter? Are you ill? Is the baby ill? No—she at least is sleeping sweetly, and looks full of rosy health. Do speak, and tell me the meaning of all this!”
Flora was in the arms of her friend before she had ceased speaking. “A thousand welcomes! dear Mary. You are the very person I most wished just now to see. The very sight of you is an antidote to grief. ‘A remedy for sore eyes,’ as the Irish say. You have been too long away. When did you arrive?”
“By the mail—about an hour ago.”
“And your dear sister—?”
“Is gone to a happier home,” said Mary Parnell, in a faltering voice; and glancing down at her black dress, she continued, “she died happy—so happy, dear Flora, and now—she is happier still. But, we will not speak of her just now, Flora; I cannot bear it. Time, which reconciles us to every change, will teach me resignation to the Divine will. But ah! ’tis a sore trial to part with the cherished friend and companion of our early years. We were most attached sisters. Our hearts were one—and now—”
There was a pause. Both friends wept. Mary first regained her composure.
“How is Lyndsay? Has he finished writing his book?”
“The book is finished, and accepted by Mr. Bentley.”
“That is good, excellent news; and the darling baby?”