ectly out
now myself and speak to Aunt Dinah, as Mrs. Harold and Garda are
talking, I reckon--yes, _indeed_, they've got something to talk about,
haven't they? and _what_ a comfort this will be to Mrs. Harold, coming
so _soon_ after her taking charge of the dear, dear child, and making
her more than ever one of the family, of course; and Katrina too, what a
comfort it will be to her to have her dear nephew so _delightfully_
married! But there, I'll go out and speak to Aunt Dinah; 'twon't be
long, Mistress Kirby; 'twon't be long."

Mrs. Kirby hoped it would not be; she sat very still in her low chair,
it seemed to help her more if she sat still. She was seventy-five years
old, and a very delicate little woman; her last meal had been taken at
five o'clock of the afternoon, or, as she would have said, of the
evening, before. She had been up all night, having started with her son
for East Angels soon after Telano had appeared at their door late in the
evening, saying that Garda had not come home, and Mrs. Harold wished to
know if she were with them; Reginald, though in his mental perceptions
so keen, was very blind at night as regarded actual vision; in
consequence they had missed their way, and after long meandering
wanderings over the level country in various directions through the soft
darkness, behind their old horse June on a slow walk (her white back was
the only thing they could either of them see), they had found themselves
at dawn far away from East Angels, so that they had only been able to
arrive there half an hour before Garda herself appeared. They had found
several of their friends already assembled, and had learned from them
that word had been sent down from Gracias that Garda had reached Mrs.
Carew's house in safety, with Evert Winthrop; and that all three would
soon be at East Angels.

This news had occasioned much relief. Also some conjecture. But Reginald
Kirby did not conjecture when they told him the tale, he maintained an
ominous silence. Too ominous, Mr. Moore thought: let ominousness be kept
for one's attitude towards crime. The truth was that Mr. Moore, much as
he admired Dr. Reginald (and he admired him sincerely), thought that he
had just one little fault: he was disposed at times to be somewhat
theatrical. So he spoke in his most amiable way of Garda's adventure
being "idyllic," and turning to the Doctor, added, pleasantly, "Why so
saturnine?" And then again (as it seemed to him a good phrase),