THE SILVER CORD.
BY SHIRLEY BROOKS.
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CHAPTER XXXV.
The same evening, late, there came a rather timid knock at the door of Mr. Hawkesley’s house. The author was sitting, with his wife, in the dining-room, and there had been mention made to Walter Lygon of the fact that such a thing as a bedroom candle might be had on demand—a hint which that young person, deep in Robinson Crusoe, had not been prompt to accept. In accordance with the custom of his order, he had preferred any other post for study than that suggested by such common-place articles as chairs and tables, and he had deposited himself on the rug, and was reading hard, somewhat in the attitude of the celebrated Magdalen, though by no means with the repose so exquisitely indicated by the painter. His good-natured uncle had once or twice suggested that restlessness was opposed to careful examination of history, but Walter continued to wriggle and shift over the conversion of Friday, until dismissal became imminent.
“Oh, Auntie!” exclaimed the boy, listening intently, as the servant was heard answering the person at the street door. The next minute he sprang to his feet, as the parlour door opened.
“I knew it was,” he said. “I knew the voice.”
It was Clara.
Her brother had the start, and had kissed her with a boy’s violence, and received her hearty kisses in return, before Mr. or Mrs. Hawkesley could speak; but their welcome to the child was a gladder one than even kind relations are in the habit of according.
“But are you alone, darling?” said Mrs. Hawkesley, when the first affectionate embraces were over, and Clara stood with her aunt’s arm round her.
