“Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. Where can I get one?" asked O'Higgins. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house.
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