“That’s right. You and I always understand each other, don’t we? Come—we take a quick walk up to the top of Castle Hill, before going home.”
Tears were hastily dried, and Joan seemed very glad to put aside an unwelcome subject. She was soon talking and laughing with her usual freedom, almost—but not quite. An undercurrent of grave thought showed now and then; and George Rutherford would not have had it otherwise. He did not wish to depress her spirits, and a brisk hill-climbing, followed by a rapid walk back to the hotel, brought her into good tune for the evening.
But Joan was not a girl to thrust lightly aside the words he had spoken, more especially as such words of personal appeal were very rare from him. There was nothing morbid about George Rutherford; indeed his equable cheeriness of temperament was something remarkable. Not less remarkable, however, were his calm trust in God, and his happy realization of things unseen. While using and enjoying the good gifts of this world, his heart did not rest upon them. Joan’s heart did.
An early start had to be made next morning, and Dulcibel was in one of her usual agonies of unreadiness. Some people never are in time for anything, no matter how early they begin to prepare; and Dulcibel’s supremest efforts after punctuality came always to the same impotent conclusion.
“Nessie, do make haste! Put those things into the portmanteau—no, not there—the other pile. Oh, dear, you have upset them all! Never mind—stuff them in. Where’s Joan? Not gone down stairs yet! She might have come to help me first.”
“Mother, here is Joan,” said Nessie, as the door opened two inches.
“Father wants you to come down to breakfast, mother.”
“I thought so!” responded Dulcibel, in despair. “Well, he must wait, that’s all. Do help Nessie lock the portmanteau, Joan. She is so slow, she will never get things done. Is your packing finished?”
“Quite,” said Joan.
“I’ve just found three great holes in my gloves; the wrong pair left out, of course. You haven’t a needle and thread, have you, Joan—or Nessie? Thanks, Joan—what a handy girl you are! When the portmanteau is locked you had better both go down, and begin breakfast with your father.”