Annie Bermond's bright face looked in timidly at the open door.
"Come here, darling, come and stand right beside your old uncle and
aunt, and let us thank you with all our hearts for the good you have
done us. Don't cry any more, Margaret. Why, fairy, what is the
matter with you?" for Annie's tears were falling fast upon his hand.
"I hardly know, Uncle John; I never felt so glad in my life before,
but I cannot help crying. Oh, it is so sweet to think the cloud has
gone."
"And whose dear hand, under God's blessing, drove the cloud away,
but yours, my child?"
Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her uncle's arm, and
Miss Greylston said, with a beaming smile,
"Now, Annie, we see the good purpose God had in sending you here
to-day. You have done for us the blessed work of a peace-maker."
Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt, but from that
golden autumn day, she became, if such a thing could be, dearer than
ever--bound to them by an exceedingly sweet tie.
Years went by. One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party was
gathered together in the wide parlour at Greylston Cottage,--nearly
all the nephews and nieces were there. Mrs. Lennox, the "Sophy" of
earlier days, with her husband; Richard Bermond and his pretty
little wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear, bright
Annie--her fair face only the fairer and sweeter for time--sat,
talking in a corner with young Walter Selwyn.
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