  To the surprised delight of Muriel, both Uncle Barney and little Zoeth were at the boat to bid her goodbye. Doctor Winslow had at once wired the good news to the old man who had been instrumental in finding the girl’s long-lost father and his deeply furrowed, weather-beaten face shone with joy as he held out his arms to Rilla, heeding not at all the jostling throng of voyagers who were eager to board the greater steamer. “Who is your pa, Rilly gal? What’d the lawyer chap tell yo’ about him?” Muriel shook her head. “I don’t know a bit more about it than you do, Uncle Barney,” she confessed. “My father wished me to form my own opinion when I met him, and so he asked Mr. Templeton to make no attempt to describe him to me. I’m glad really. One never can picture people as they truly are. All that matters to me is that he is my father.” Then Doctor Lem returned, having attended to the baggage, and they all accompanied Rilla to her stateroom. “Take good care of Shags for me,” were her last words to Zoeth, “and tell him I’ll come back after him as soon as ever I can.” Then Muriel leaned over the rail and waved to her loved ones on the crowded wharf until the huge steamer had swung out into the channel. The voyage, although of great interest to the girl, who so loved the sea, was uneventful, and in due time England was reached. “And so this is London,” Muriel said one foggy morning as she glanced out of the window of the conveyance which Mr. Templeton had engaged to take them to their destination. “I am so glad that my father does not live in the city.” Then she inquired: “Is he a farmer, Mr. Templeton?” Rilla recalled that when in Tunkett the young man had seemed to be very poor, but he might have sold paintings enough since then to have bought a farm. Mr. Templeton’s expression was inscrutable. “Why, yes, Miss Muriel; in a way your father might be called a farmer. All kinds of vegetables and stock are raised on his place. But—er—he doesn’t wield the pitchfork himself these days. He is rather too prosperous for that.” How glad the girl was when they were out on the open road. The hawthorn hedges were white with bloom and so high that in many places they could not see over them into the parklike grounds they were passing. Suddenly Muriel touched Mr. Templeton’s arm and lifted a glowing face. “Hark!” she whispered. “Did you hear it? Over there in the hedgerow. There it is again. Oh, I know him! Miss Gordon has often read the poem. “‘That’s the wise thrush. He sings each song twice over Lest you think he could never recapture That first fine, careless rapture.’ “Do you like Browning’s poetry, Mr. Templeton?” “Well, really, Miss Muriel, I’ve never had much time to read verse; been too busy studying law. But your farmer-father sets quite a store by the poets, he tells me.” “I’m so glad!” was the radiant reply. Then the girl fell to musing. How she hoped that her dear mother knew that at last she was going to the poor artist whom she had so loved. “How long will it be before we reach the farming district, Mr. Templeton?” The girl was again gazing out of the window at her side. “These homes that we are passing are like the great old castles I have read about in Scott’s books and Thackeray’s.” “We will soon reach our destination,” was the non-committal reply of her companion. Then, leaning forward, he spoke a few words to the man at the wheel. They turned down a side road that narrowed to a winding lane. There the conveyance stopped and Mr. Templeton directed Muriel to a picturesque cabin half hidden among trees, in front of which ran a shallow babbling stream. “Your father awaits you in there,” he said. As one in a dream Muriel crossed the rustic bridge and approached the cabin. It was just the sort of a home that an artist would build, she thought. Timidly she knocked on the closed door. It was flung open by a man nearing middle age, perhaps, but whose youthful face was radiant with a great joy. Taking both her hands, he gazed at her devouringly. Then, drawing her to him, he crushed her in his arms as he said, his voice tense with emotion: “My Rilla’s own little girl, and my girl, too.” |
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