The Smile of the Stranger by Joan Aiken

sir,” Juliana said, greatly taken aback by this brusque greeting. Her heart sank; as on several occasions during the course of the journey, she passionately wished herself back in Florence. “He has been sleeping on the way hither, and I waited to rouse him until I was sure that—”
    A flash of some unrecognizable emotion lightened momentarily her grandfather ’ s bleak countenance. Juliana was not sure what it expressed. Pleasure at his son ’ s safe arrival? Concern? Regret? Next moment it had passed and, scowling as before, muttering, “Damned young fool to have left it so late,” he pulled back the carriage door, saying gruffly, “Well, Charles! Home at last—and not before it was time, eh?”
    “Why—Father—is that you?” Charles Elphinstone murmured faintly, and he endeavored to rise from the coach seat, pushing himself up with his thin hands.
    “Take care, Papa—let me help you!” exclaimed Juliana, moving swiftly forward. “He is grievously weak, sir,” she added in an undertone to Sir Horace.
    “Very well—very well,” replied the latter testily, extending his left arm. “I can help him, girl—I am not in my grave yet! Come along, my boy—lean on my shoulder—that ’ s it!”
    Swaying with weakness, Juliana ’ s father was assisted from the vehicle, the driver coming round to take his other arm. A little group of liveried footmen now appeared at the head of the steps and stood awaiting instructions.
    Charles Elphinstone took a deep breath and looked all around him, at the mellow brick house, the green grass, the leafless trees.
    “Very—very beautiful!” he said unsteadily. “Just the way — I remembered it—many and many a time—my dear father!” and he swayed forward out of his father ’ s grasp, and pitched onto his face on the steps, and lay still.
    Juliana gave one short cry—“Papa!”—and then stood, with her hands pressed to her breast, as they carried him carefully into the house, two footmen on each side.
    Sir Horace limped alongside the little cortege, furiously shouting instructions.
    “Put him in the morning room—lay him on the sofa! Fetch brandy—cordials—a hot brick—tell Mrs. Hurdle—send Will on Firefly for the surgeon—no, for Dr. Garrett. Damme, has no one any sense round here?”
    Numbly, Juliana followed the procession into a stiff, old - fashioned room, with furniture primly aligned against the walls, where her father was laid down upon a narrow couch, and his head was supported by a stiff bolster. Juliana went and stood by him, looking down into his face.
    Then she looked up at her grandfather.
    “He is dead,” she said quietly.
    The old man stared at her angrily, his face working.
    “Nonsense, gal! Stuff and nonsense! How can he be dead? I never heard such tomfoolery! A drop of cordial, and he ’ ll be as fit as fivepence.”
    Juliana shook her head. But the effort to convince him seemed too hard for her to undertake. Her throat was clogged; she could find no more words. Dimly, beyond her grandfather, she noticed a group of females: a plump lady, pink-faced, fashionably dressed, with a profusion of golden ringlets; and beyond her, staring eagerly past her shoulders, a pair of girls in striped dresses who, to Juliana ’ s clouded, bewildered vision, appeared indistinguishable; they swam together, they separated, they were the same person, but divided into different places ...
    The lady let out a slight scream. “Charles! Oh, my poor dear brother—”
    “He is dead,” Juliana repeated hoarsely, and slid to the floor in a deep faint .
    She came to in a dusk-filled room, hours or even days later, it seemed. A sense of terrible anxiety possessed her.
    “Papa?” she cried out confusedly. “Are you there? Do you wish to dictate? I am sure I could write—the balloon does not sway too badly—”
    “Ah, poor little dear,” a voice remarked. “She does not remember. And who ’ s to tell her? Eh, mercy me, what a journey she must have