We had not spoken a word, I think, for ten minutes, when a slip of paper
was brought in, on which was written a name.
"Ask her to walk in," said Mr. Craven, and, going to the door, he
greeted the visitor, and led Miss Elmsdale into the room.
I rose, irresolute; but she came forward, and, with a charming
blush, held out her hand, and asked me some commonplace question
about my health.
Then I was going, but she entreated me not to leave the room on
her account.
"This is my birthday, Mr. Craven," she went on, "and I have come to ask
you to wish me many happy returns of the day, and to do something for
me--will you?"
"I wish you every happiness, my dear," he answered, with a tenderness
born, perhaps, of olden memories and of loving-kindness towards one so
sweet, and beautiful, and lonely. "And if there is anything I can do for
you on your birthday, why, it is done, that is all I can say."
She clasped her dear hands round his arm, and led him towards a further
window. I could see her downcast eyes--the long lashes lying on her
cheeks, the soft colour flitting and coming, making her alternately pale
and rosy, and I was jealous. Heaven forgive me! If she had hung so
trustfully about one of the patriarchs, I should have been jealous,
though he reckoned his years by centuries.
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