Annie Bermond's bright face looked in timidly at the open door.
“Come here, darling, come and stand right beside your old uncle and aunt, and let us thank you with all our hearts for the good you have done us. Don't cry any more, Margaret. Why, fairy, what is the matter with you?” for Annie's tears were falling fast upon his hand.
“I hardly know, Uncle John; I never felt so glad in my life before, but I cannot help crying. Oh, it is so sweet to think the cloud has gone.”
“And whose dear hand, under God's blessing, drove the cloud away, but yours, my child?”
Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her uncle's arm, and Miss Greylston said, with a beaming smile,
“Now, Annie, we see the good purpose God had in sending you here to-day. You have done for us the blessed work of a peace-maker.”
Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt, but from that golden autumn day, she became, if such a thing could be, dearer than ever—bound to them by an exceedingly sweet tie.
Years went by. One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party was gathered together in the wide parlour at Greylston Cottage,—nearly all the nephews and nieces were there. Mrs. Lennox, the “Sophy” of earlier days, with her husband; Richard Bermond and his pretty little wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear, bright Annie—her fair face only the fairer and sweeter for time—sat, talking in a corner with young Walter Selwyn. John Greylston went slowly to the window, and pushed aside the curtains, and as he stood there looking out somewhat gravely in the bleak and wintry night, he felt a soft hand touch him, and he turned and found Annie Bermond by his side.
“You looked so lonely, my dear uncle.”
“And that is the reason you deserted Walter?” he said, laughing. “Well, I will soon send you back to him. But, look out here first, Annie, and tell me what you see;” and she laid her face close to the window-pane, and, after a minute's silence, said,