“The door must be opened for you, and without the preliminary of a knock. Leave all that to me,” said Uncle John.
By this time they had reached a small house in a part of the city where persons in moderate circumstances reside, and both paused at the door.
“Will you come in, Mr. Fleetwood?” said Miss Harper, speaking in a tone of unusual familiarity. “Aunt Mary will, I know, be glad to see you.”
“Yes, I must go in, and have a little more talk with you, and a little conference with good Aunt Mary.”
In the next moment they passed together into the house,—the manner of Uncle John being that of a man who was entering a familiar place. In the small, neatly-furnished sitting-room to which both proceeded they found a plainly-dressed lady, somewhat advanced in years. She was reading in a volume that seemed to have been taken up casually, as her knitting-work was in her lap.
“How are you, Mrs. Elder?” said Uncle John, in the familiar voice of a friend; and he took the old lady’s hand and shook it cordially.
“Right well, and right glad to see you, Mr. Fleetwood,” was the frank, cheerful response, as she returned the hearty pressure of Uncle John’s hand. “But to what cause am I indebted for this visit?” she added, a slight shadow coming into her face as she looked more narrowly at Florence.
“A providential one, doubtless,” said Mr. Fleetwood, smiling. “I met your niece, just now, fleeing from the post of duty, and have accompanied her hither, that I might hear the report she has to make of herself.”
“A good report, I doubt not,” replied the old lady, throwing a kind but serious glance upon the countenance of her niece.
“When the door is shut in your face, you can hardly be blamed for leaving the threshold,” said Florence, with some bitterness in her tones.