“Miss! you’re cutting the stuff wrong.”
“So I am; but it is only a snip: there is no harm done.”
The kitchen-door opened; Mr. Moore entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned from her dressmaking occupation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute’s time for some purpose. Bent over the dress, her face was hidden; there was an attempt to settle her features and veil their expression, which failed: when she at last met Mr. Moore, her countenance beamed.
“We had ceased to expect you: they asserted you would not come,” she said.
“But I promised to return soon: you expected me, I suppose?”
“No, Robert: I dared not when it rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled—change everything: if you took cold, I should—we should blame ourselves in some measure.”
“I am not wet through: my riding-coat is water-proof. Dry shoes are all I require.—There . . . . the fire is pleasant after facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles.”
He stood on the kitchen-hearth; Caroline stood beside him. Mr. Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept his eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the shelf above. Chancing for an instant to look down, his glance rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Sarah was gone into the parlour
