Читать книгу Sydney Lisle, the Heiress of St. Quentin онлайн

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Sydney drew a chair to the fire as she had been told, and sat staring into it with dreamy eyes. Nine o’clock. At this time they all would be in the drawing-room at home, except the little ones in bed. Father would very likely be reading aloud to mother something that had interested him; Madge making doll’s clothes in her special corner of the room, with a good many whispered appeals to Mildred over some tiresome garment that would not come right, and Hugh and Hal would be playing one of their interminable games of chess—supposing Hugh had not been called out to see some sick person. Just one chair would be empty, that little dumpy cane one in which she usually sat, which creaked so much as to make a never-ceasing joke about “Sydney’s prodigious weight”! Sydney’s head sank low, and the fire grew blurred when she thought about that little chair. Was it only last night she had been in the dear drawing-room at home with all of them?

When, ten minutes later, the coffee and Mr. Fenton came noiselessly together into the gold drawing-room, the old lawyer found the little heiress leaning back in the great arm-chair by the fire asleep.