And there was Maurice, leaning
against the iron rail of the hall steps; but he hardly moved, and his
face was so strangely white and set, that Albinia caught him in her
arms, crying, 'Are you well, my boy? Sophy, is he well?'
'Quite well,' said Sophy; but the boy had wriggled himself loose,
stood but for an instant to receive his father's kiss, and had hold
of the sword. The long cavalry sabre was almost as tall as himself,
and he stood with both arms clasped round it; but no sooner did he
feel their eyes upon him, than he turned about and ran upstairs.
It was not gracious, but they excused it; they had their little
Albinia comfortably and childishly happy, as yet without those
troublesome Kendal feelings that always demonstrated themselves in
some perverse manner.
And Sophy stood among them--that brighter, better Sophy who had so
long been obscured, happy to have them at home; talking and asking
questions eagerly about the journey, and describing the kindness of
the Dusautoys and the goodness of the children.
'Have you heard from Lucy?' asked Mr. Kendal, as Albinia went in
pursuit of her little boy.
'Yes--poor Lucy?'
'Is there no letter from him?'
'Not for you, papa.'
'What? Did he write to his uncle?'
'No, papa--he wrote to me and to Mr. Pettilove. Cannot he be
stopped, papa? Can he do any harm? Mr. Dusautoy and Mr. Pettilove
think he can.'
'You mean that he wishes to question the will? You may be quite
secure, my dear.
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