Hecla and Chris were great chums. He was over ten, and of course he felt himself to be years and years older and wiser than a mere little girl of eight and a half; and, of course, he expected her to be properly meek and submissive. But, as she had an immense admiration for him, and never supposed that he could do wrong, he was really kind to her; and on the whole, he did not dislike to have her hanging round, and watching his every movement with dog-like devotion, only not quite so dumb as a dog's devotion, for whatever else happened or did not happen, Hecla always talked.
As Miss Anne Storey and Hecla reached the open door of the Vicarage—it generally stood wide open, as if inviting the people of the place to go in as often as they liked, which, indeed, was the Vicar's desire—a pale, thin, delicate-looking man, with a face which seemed made of sunshine, came out of the front room.
"What! Miss Anne and little Hecla! Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "How do you both do? Well, little one?"
Hecla burst out at once, "Oh, Uncle John, only think! There's a dear, sweet, little darling pet cousin coming!"
"Eh, how's that?" The Vicar led them in, put a chair for Miss Anne, and dropped into another himself.
Miss Anne began to explain, and Hecla broke in with further particulars, as she leant confidingly against the Vicar's knee.
"Hush, hush," he murmured. "Polite people don't interrupt, you know. Aunt Anne was saying something."
Hecla held her tongue exactly six seconds, and felt as if she had been silent for half-an-hour.
"Won't it be lovely?" she exclaimed, taking advantage of a tiny halt. "And I'm going perhaps to dress and undress Ivy, as soon as ever I've shown I can be properly trusted."
Mr. Deane's eyes twinkled. "Can't you be trusted yet? That is sad."