Zeal was the spring whence flowed her
hardiment.
Fairfax.
Barby undid bolt and lock and Fleda met the traveller
in the hall. She was a lady; her air and dress
shewed that, though the latter was very plain.
“Does Mr. Rossitur live here?” was her
first word.
Fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the
sitting room. But the light falling upon a form
and face that had seen more wear and tear than time,
gave her no clue as to the who or what of the person
before her. The stranger’s hurried look
round the room seemed to expect something.
“Are they all gone to bed?”
“All but me,” said Fleda.
“We have been delayed—we took a wrong
road—we’ve been riding for hours
to find the place—hadn’t the right
direction.”—Then looking keenly at
Fleda, from whose vision an electric spark of intelligence
had scattered the clouds, she said;
“I am Marion Rossitur.”
“I knew it!” said Fleda, with lips and
eyes that gave her already a sister’s welcome;
and they were folded in each other’s arms almost
as tenderly and affectionately, on the part of one
at least, as if there had really been the relationship
between them. But more than surprise and affection
struck Fleda’s heart.
“And where are they all, Fleda? Can’t
I see them?”
“You must wait till I have prepared them—Hugh
and aunt Lucy are not very well. I don’t
know that it will do for you to see them at all to-night,
Marion.”
“Not to-night! They are not ill?”
“No—only enough to be taken care
of—not ill. But it would be better
to wait”
“And my father?”
“He is not at home.”
Marion exclaimed in sorrow, and Fleda to hide the
look that she felt was on her face stooped down to
kiss the child. He was a remarkably fine-looking
manly boy.
“That is your cousin Fleda,” said his
mother.
“No—aunt Fleda,” said
the person thus introduced—“don’t
put me off into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle
Hugh’s sister—and so I am your aunt
Fleda. Who are you?”
“Rolf Rossitur Schwiden.”
Alas how wide are the ramifications of evil!
How was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly
poisoned and turned into bitterness. It went
through Fleda’s heart with a keen pang when she
heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that
owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that
had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but
the child. He already understood the melting
eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half
felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss,
and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder
and sympathy. Fleda was glad to have business
to call her into the kitchen.
“Who is it?” was Barby’s immediate
question.
“Aunt Lucy’s daughter.”
