“Just so, Harry; well, I’m not going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I’m sure you would give a good many pence for mine. However, I’ll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell you out at once—Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn’t that stunning?”
It certainly looked so in Harry’s case, for the old man dropped a large silver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wide open, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement.
“All, I thought so,” said Walter. “Well, Harry, it’s true. Isn’t that good news?”
Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant’s heart. One big tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a low voice, “The Lord be praised! I’ve prayed as it might come to this some day; and so it has at last. And you’re sure of it, Master Walter; you’re not a-cramming of me?”
“Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn’t have the heart to do it. No, it is perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a great bonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say to that?”
“I don’t know, Master Walter, I don’t know. Somehow or other it don’t seem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. You see, it isn’t as if she’d been and married a creditable person, or were coming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There’s been faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we’d better do our rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in our hearts, and then we shan’t give offence to nobody.”
“Harry, I believe you’re right,” said Walter. “You’re a regular old brick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice.”
When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutes to her own room, she received a visit from Walter. “Auntie,” he said, “I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a little encouragement. Now, you know all the circumstances of our grand scene with that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who is your special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on that occasion.”
“Yes, I can do that, my dear boy,” replied his aunt; “but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero—my dear nephew Walter.”
“Nay, aunt,” he replied, “I don’t think there was much moral courage about it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos’s life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been as tall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant.”