Fanny stopped her ears to shut out the bitter cry, but if Kate heard it,
she heeded it not, and bounded on over the graveled walk toward her
mother, who was eagerly waiting for her. In an instant parent and child
were weeping in each other's arms.
"My Kate, my darling Kate, are you indeed here?" said Mrs. Wilmot.
Kate's only answer was a still more passionate embrace. Then recollecting
herself, she took her husband's hand and presented him to her mother,
saying, "Mother, I could not bring you Richard, but I have brought you
another son. Will you not give him room in your heart?"
Mrs. Wilmot had never seen Mr. Miller before, but she was prepared to like
him, not only because he was her daughter's choice, but because he had
been the devoted friend of her son; consequently she greeted him with a
most kind and affectionate welcome.
During all this time Fanny was leaning against one of the pillars of the
piazza, but her thoughts were far away. She was thinking of her distant
Kentucky home, and a half feeling of homesickness crept over her, as she
thought how joyfully she would be greeted there, should she ever return.
Her reverie was of short duration, for Kate approached, and leading her to
her mother, simply said, "Mother, this is Fanny."
'Twas enough. The word Fanny had a power to open the fountains of that
mother's heart. She had heard the story of the young girl, who had watched
so unweariedly by the bedside of Richard--she had heard, too, of the
generous old man, whose noble heart had cared for and cherished the
stranger, and she knew that she, who advanced toward her so timidly, was
the same young girl, the same old man's daughter; and could Mr. Middleton
have witnessed her reception of his Sunshine, he would have been
satisfied.
A messenger was dispatched for Mr. Wilmot, who was superintending some
workmen in a field not far from the house. Mr. Wilmot was a tall,
noble-looking man, whose fine figure was slightly bowed by the frosts of
sixty winters. As he advanced with breathless haste toward the house, Kate
ran to meet him, and the tears which the strong man wept, told how dear to
him was this, his beautiful daughter, and how forcibly her presence
reminded him of his first-born, only son, who went away to die among
strangers.
When he was presented to Mr. Miller and Fanny, a scene similar to the one
we have already described took place. As he blessed Fanny for Richard's
sake, she felt that though in a strange land, she was not alone or
unloved. Her homesickness soon vanished; for how could she be lonely and
sad, where all were so kind, and where each seemed to vie with the other
in trying to make everything agreeable to her. It was strange how soon
even Hector learned to love the fair Kentuckian. He would follow her
footsteps wherever she went, and affectionately kiss her hands. But then,
as Kate said, "Hector had more common sense than half the people in the
world," and he seemed to know by instinct that she whom he so fondly
caressed had once watched over his young master, who was now sleeping in
his silent grave, unmindful that in his home he was still sincerely
mourned even by old Hector.