“Randolph again?” he asked quickly.

Tom walked to the window, and stood looking out into the street.  His voice shook as he answered: 

“Ten days ago I learned that my brother was dead, Mr. Isham.”

The president glanced at the broad back of his teller.  Mr. Isham’s voice was firm, his face certainly betrayed no feeling, but a flitting gleam of satisfaction might have been seen in his eye.

“Of course, Tom, you may go,” he answered.

Thus came to pass an event in the lives of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, that journey to New York (their first) of two nights and two days to fetch Honora.  We need not dwell upon all that befell them.  The first view of the Hudson, the first whiff of the salt air on this unwonted holiday, the sights of this crowded city of wealth,—­all were tempered by the thought of the child coming into their lives.  They were standing on the pier when the windows were crimson in the early light, and at nine o’clock on that summer’s morning the Albania was docked, and the passengers came crowding down the gang-plank.  Prosperous tourists, most of them, with servants and stewards carrying bags of English design and checked steamer rugs; and at last a ruddy-faced bonne with streamers and a bundle of ribbons and laces—­Honora—­Honora, aged eighteen months, gazing at a subjugated world.

“What a beautiful child! exclaimed a woman on the pier.”

Was it instinct or premonition that led them to accost the bonne?

“Oui, Leffingwell!” she cried, gazing at them in some perplexity.  Three children of various sizes clung to her skirts, and a younger nurse carried a golden-haired little girl of Honora’s age.  A lady and gentleman followed.  The lady was beginning to look matronly, and no second glance was required to perceive that she was a person of opinion and character.  Mr. Holt was smaller than his wife, neat in dress and unobtrusive in appearance.  In the rich Mrs. Holt, the friend of the Randolph Leffingwells, Aunt Mary was prepared to find a more vapidly fashionable personage, and had schooled herself forthwith.

“You are Mrs. Thomas Leffingwell?” she asked.  “Well, I am relieved.”  The lady’s eyes, travelling rapidly over Aunt Mary’s sober bonnet and brooch and gown, made it appear that these features in Honora’s future guardian gave her the relief in question.  “Honora, this is your aunt.”

Honora smiled from amidst the laces, and Aunt Mary, only too ready to capitulate, surrendered.  She held out her arms.  Tears welled up in the Frenchwoman’s eyes as she abandoned her charge.

“Pauvre mignonne!” she cried.

But Mrs. Holt rebuked the nurse sharply, in French,—­a language with which neither Aunt Mary nor Uncle Tom was familiar.  Fortunately, perhaps.  Mrs. Holt’s remark was to the effect that Honora was going to a sensible home.

“Hortense loves her better than my own children,” said that lady.