But all at once I heard a
step on the gravel walk, and I knew who it was. "That's Charles
Edward," I said. "He's been home with Aunt Elizabeth. We must go in."
"No!" said he. "No, Peggy. There won't be such another night." Then he
laughed quickly and got up. "Yes," he said, "there will be such
nights--over and over again. Come, Peggy, little psychologist, we'll go
in."
We found Lorraine and Charles Edward standing in the middle of the
room, holding hands and looking at each other. "You're a hero,"
Lorraine was saying, "and a gentleman and a scholar and my own
particular Peter."
"Don't admire me," said Charles Edward, "or you'll get me so bellicose
I shall have to challenge Lyman Wilde. Poor old chap! I believe to my
soul he's had the spirit to make off."
"Speak gently of Lyman Wilde," said Lorraine. "I never forget what we
owe him. Sometimes I burn a candle to his photograph. I've even dropped
a tear before it. Well, children?" She turned her bright eyes on us as
if she liked us very much, and we two stood facing them two, and it all
seemed quite solemn. Suddenly Charles Edward put out his hand and shook
Mr. Dane's, and they both looked very much moved, as grandmother would
say. I hadn't known they liked each other so well.
"Do you know what time it is?" said Lorraine. "Half-past eleven by
Shrewsbury clock.
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