"Mr. Waters!" she impulsively ejaculated. "Oh, I am so glad!"
"Yes," I answered, "that is certainly my name; but I scarcely remember—Stand back, fellow!" I angrily continued, as her tormentor, emboldened by the spirits he had drunk, pressed with a jeering grin upon his face, toward her, still tendering the brandy and water. "Stand back!" He replied by a curse and a threat. The next moment his flowing wig was whirling across the room, and he standing with his bullet-head bare but for a few locks of iron-gray, in an attitude of speechless rage and confusion, increased by the peals of laughter which greeted his ludicrous, unwigged aspect. He quickly put himself in a fighting attitude, and, backed by his companion, challenged me to battle. This was quite out of the question; and I was somewhat at a loss how to proceed, when the bell announcing the instant departure of the train rang out, my furious antagonist gathered up and adjusted his wig, and we all sallied forth to take our places—the young woman holding fast by my arm, and in a low, nervous voice, begging me not to leave her. I watched the two fellows take their seats, and then led her to the hind-most carriage, which we had to ourselves as far as the next station.
"Are Mrs. Waters and Emily quite well?" said the young woman, coloring, and lowering her eyes beneath my earnest gaze, which she seemed for a moment to misinterpret.
"Quite—entirely so," I almost stammered. "You know us then?"
"Surely I do," she replied, reassured by my manner. "But you, it seems," she presently added, with a winning smile, "have quite forgotten little Mary Kingsford."
"Mary Kingsford!" I exclaimed, almost with a shout. "Why, so it is! But what a transformation a few years have effected!"
"Do you think so? Not pretty Mary Kingsford now, then, I suppose?" she added, with a light, pleasant laugh.
"You know what I mean, you vain puss you!" I replied, quite gleefully, for I was overjoyed at meeting with the gentle, well remembered playmate of my own eldest girl. We were old familiar friends—almost father and daughter—in an instant.
Little Mary Kingsford, I should state, was, when I left Yorkshire, one of the prettiest, most engaging children I had ever seen; and a petted favorite not only with us, but of every other family in the neighborhood. She was the only child of Philip and Mary Kingsford—a humble, worthy, and much respected couple. The father was gardener to Sir Pyott Dalzell, and her mother eked out his wages to a respectable maintenance by keeping a cheap children's school. The change which a few years had wrought in the beautiful child was quite sufficient to account for my imperfect recognition of her; but the instant her name was mentioned, I at once recognized the rare comeliness which had charmed us all in her childhood. The soft brown eyes were the same, though now revealing profounder depths, and emitting a more pensive expression; the hair, though deepened in color, was still golden; her complexion, lit up as it now was by a sweet blush, was brilliant as ever; while her child-person had become matured and developed into womanly symmetry and grace. The brilliancy of color vanished from her cheek as I glanced meaningly at her mourning dress.
"Yes," she murmured, in a sad, quivering voice—"yes, father is gone! It will be six months come next Thursday that he died! Mother is well," she continued more cheerfully, after a pause, "in health, but poorly off; and I—and I," she added, with a faint effort at a smile, "am going to London to seek my fortune!"