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Chapter 19

Aletter, edged with black, announced the day of my
master’s return. Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me
get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and
other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.

Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father
back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the
innumerable excellences of her “real” cousin.

The evening of their expected arrival came. Since early
morning, she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and
now, attired in her new black frock--poor thing! her aunt’s death
impressed her with no definite sorrow--she obliged me, by
constant worrying, to walk with her down through the grounds to
meet them.

“Linton is just six months younger than I am,” she chattered, as
we strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf,
under shadow of the trees. “How delightful it will be to have him
for a playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent Papa a beautiful lock of his
hair; it was lighter than mine--more flaxen, and quite as fine. I
have it carefully preserved in a little glass box, and I’ve often
thought what pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am
happy--and Papa, dear, dear Papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come

She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my
sober footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on
the grassy bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but
that was impossible; she couldn’t be still a minute.

“How long they are!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see some dust on

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