She obeyed, and sat down by the fire, glancing round the room curiously. In her lap lay a brown-paper parcel.
“I thought you would come home to dinner after chapel,” she began, “so I got here about one.”
She observed that his face showed some trouble, and she hesitated to go on.
“Have you come to tell me of more family misfortunes?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh,” she said, “I wish I hadn’t come. I told her you didn’t want it and you wouldn’t like it. Besides, what’s the use? It all happened so long ago. But granny would have it. I’ve brought you a book. She says you must read it. If you’d rather not have it, I will take it back again. Granny ought to know that you don’t want to be worried about these old things.”
He pulled himself together, and assumed a mask of cheerfulness.
“Nonsense!” he said. “Why should I not read about these old things which are to me so new? They belong to me as much as to you.”
He observed the girl more narrowly while he spoke. Her words and her hesitation showed perception and feeling at least. As for her appearance, she was short and sturdy; her features were cast in one of the more common moulds. She wore a black cloth jacket and a skirt of dark green serge, a modest hat with black plumes nodding over her head in the hearse-like fashion of the day before yesterday, and her gloves were doubtful.
The first impression was of complete insignificance; the second impression was of a girl who might interest one. Her eyes were good—they were the eyes of her grandmother; her hands were small and delicate—they were the hands of her grandmother; her voice was clear and soft, with a distinct utterance quite unlike the thick and husky people among whom she lived. In all these points she resembled her grandmother. Leonard observed these things—it was a distraction to think of the cousin apart from the Family History—and became interested in the girl.
“My cousin,” he said unexpectedly, “you are very much like your grandmother.”