Sinson left him at his country quarters, merely saying, that they would return to London the following day, and that there Everope should learn the object of the journey. He himself repaired to the habitation of his grandmother.
The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, swinging herself backwards and forwards, and murmuring a hymn. She was little sensible to emotion now-a-days, but she rejoiced to behold her Michael again, and to perceive, what was evident even to her eyes, that he was a much finer person than when he went away. As he entered the lodge in the dusk of the evening, she ceased singing, and settled herself on her chair steadily, in order to look at him.
"Hither to me, my boy," said the old crone, stretching her shrivelled arm to reach a low stool and set it by her side; "come thee here to me. 'Tis dimly like, and my eyes get something old."
Michael, who had his reasons for humouring her, lighted a candle, and seated himself on the floor at her feet. She drew his head to her lap, and passed her hand lightly over his face, and then looked at him with eyes that were still bright and black, however she might complain of their decaying power.
"Ay," she said, with a smile, "he's just the same always, my Michael. And hast been to show thyself to Cecily, my boy?"
"No, grandame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time."
"Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her."
"That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for; and she don't wish it talked about."
"Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret. Dost mind Margaret, my boy?"