Lightfoot
came down, leaning upon Champe and Betty.
The Major was reading his Horace in the library, and though he heard the
new pair of roans pawing on the gravel, he gave no sign of displeasure. His
age had oppressed him in the last few days, and he carried stains, like
spilled wine, on his cheeks. He could not ease his swollen heart by
outbursts of anger, and the sensitiveness of his temper warned off the
sympathy which he was too proud to unbend and seek. So he sat and stared at
the unturned Latin page, and the hand he raised to his throat trembled
slightly in the air.
Outside, Betty, in her most becoming bonnet, with her blue barege shawl
over her soft white gown, wrapped Mrs. Lightfoot in woollen robes, and
fluttered nervously when the old lady remembered that she had left her
spectacles behind.
"I brought the empty case; here it is, my dear," she said, offering it to
the girl. "Surely you don't intend to take me off without my glasses?"
Mitty was sent upstairs on a search for them, and in her absence her
mistress suddenly decided that she needed an extra wrap. "The little white
nuby in my top drawer, Betty--I felt a chill striking the back of my neck."
Betty threw her armful of robes into the coach, and ran hurriedly up to the
old lady's room, coming down, in a moment, with the spectacles in one hand
and the little white shawl in the other.
"Now, we must really start, Congo," she called, as she sat down beside Mrs.
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