"
"He has forgotten that Emlyn is not our sister after all," said
Patience, as she went back to her washing.
"She might as well," said Ben, who could not remember the hut without
Emlyn.
Stead had better luck than Patience foreboded from a household where
the servants were kept very strictly, for there was a good deal of
curiosity in Bristol about the report that a lad from the
neighbourhood had won an Irish heiress and castle, and when Stead
presented himself at the door of the house under the overhanging
gable, and begged to see Emlyn Gaythorn to give her some tidings, the
maid who opened it exclaimed, "Is it anent the castle in Ireland?"
Stead awkwardly said "Aye, mistress." And as it became evident that
the readiest way of learning the facts would be his admission, he was
let into the house into a sort of wainscotted hall, where he found
the mistress herself superintending three or four young sempstresses
who were making shirts for the gentlemen of the garrison. Emlyn was
among them, and sprang up looking as if white seams were not half so
congenial as nutting in the gulley, but she looked prettier than
ever, as the little dark curls burst out of the prim white cap, she
sniffed the flowers with ecstasy, and her eyes danced with delight
that did Stead's heart good to see.
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