He had never wavered in his allegiance to Harry; though Llewellyn had tended him, fed him, and stayed him up in his hours of suffering, though he depended upon him, trusted him, and had remarked to the cook that he was a “rare good one,” it was “the young general” who had his admiration and whose image had never been eclipsed by the younger brother’s more solid qualities.
“S’pose yew be come to see miss?” he observed, when the inquiries about the burnt hands were over.
Harry did not answer.
“Where is Mr. Llewellyn?” he asked.
“Gone out. ’E says ’e’s goin’ ’ome to-morrow.”
“You will be sorry, I expect,” said Harry.
“Oi believe yew. Oi loike ’im an’ ’e loikes me an’ Parson, though ’e don’t think much o’ miss. Be yew come to see ’er?”
“Is she at home?” asked the young man, ignoring the other’s persistence.
“Settin’ up in ’er room.”
At this moment Harry looked up and saw the face of Isoline for an instant at the window; it disappeared immediately, but not before the two pairs of eyes had met.