ful, for a few moments; perhaps she was vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some moments.
When she came down there was a softness about her.
“Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.”
“He is asleep,” she said, quietly.
“I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should we, George?” said the father.
“Eh?”
“We’ll keep him here, while we are here——”
“Oh—the lad! I should. Yes—he’d be better here than up yonder.”
“Ah, yes—ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie.
“Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father.
“Not a bit,” added George.
“What about his mother!” asked Lettie.
“I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George.
“Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.”
Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap.
“Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked.
She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.
We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what to say. Lettie said finally:
