The Time of Roses

E-text prepared by D Alexander, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
It was the Time of Roses; We plucked them as we passed.
CHICAGO M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY


It was on a summer's evening early in the month of August that the little Mummy was once again seen on the platform at Dawlish.
She looked now very much like she did when we saw her of yore—slightly broadened, it is true, by the added years, but she still wore somewhat rusty widow's black, and her face still had that half-anxious, half-comical expression, which made people turn to look at her with something between a smile and a sigh. She was commonplace and plain, and yet in one sense she was neither commonplace nor plain. She had a character, and that character had developed during the last few years, and rather for the better.
There were very few passengers on the platform, and the little woman paced up and down, thinking to herself.
She is coming home at last. I don't know whether I am glad or sorry. I wonder what sort of girl Miss Sharston is. She has been very kind to Florence; but it was rash of Florence to invite her. Still, I suppose we shall be able to manage all right.
Just then the signal announcing the approaching train was lowered, and a moment or two later the said train drew up at the platform and one or two passengers alighted. Amongst these was a tall, well-set-up, dark-eyed girl, and accompanying her was another girl, who was not so tall and was very slender, with an ethereal sort of face, and large, speaking grey eyes.
The tall girl rushed up to where the little Mummy was standing.
Here I am, Mummy, she said, and this is Kitty, and we are both tired and hungry, and glad to see you again. Is there any sort of trap for our luggage, or can the porter take it and shall we walk to the cottage?