"For I do not mean to let you disappear again. No, no. I shall not let you out of my sight again. Do you know that I have a house waiting for you, Maisrie?"
"For me?" she said, looking up surprised.
"For whom else, do you imagine? And rather pretty the rooms are, I think. I have got a stand for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for you than putting it on the table before you."
She shook her head, sadly.
"My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she said. "And now I will go and see how he is. He wished to know as soon as possible of your arrival."
She left the room and was absent only for a couple of minutes.
"Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she said on her return. "I'm afraid you will find him much changed. And sometimes he wanders a little in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet as may be."
As they entered the room, an elderly Scotchwoman—most probably the landlady—who had been sitting there, rose and came out. Vincent went forward. Despite Maisrie's warning he was startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought; but if the proud and fine features were pinched and worn, the eyes were singularly bright—bright and furtive at the same time. And at sight of his visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort to assume his usual gallant air.
"Ha?" said he—though his laboured breathing made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable thing—"the young legislator—fresh from the senate—the listening senate, the applause of multitudes——"
He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said in quite an altered tone——