From Thyrza I learn that the collision was not a severe one, the only passenger injured being my poor friend. The broken collar-bone seems to be a minor injury. I imagine that the present illness is chiefly one of brain and nerves, consequent upon the shock. When Nellie wrote she could scarcely be called quite out of danger; but undoubtedly there was some improvement.
This is enough for Maggie, who has been in wild spirits ever since the letter arrived. We had rain a great part of yesterday and the day before, and she has taken vehemently to her writing again. The notion of consulting some well-known authoress, as to "the best way of getting into print," has also been revived,—probably by Miss Millington, who boasts some manner of acquaintance with two literary ladies. If Maggie should receive wholesome advice from either, so much the better. Whether they can help her "to get into print,"—that acmé of Maggie's desires,—is another question.
We discuss the matter at meal-times, Maggie being entirely unreserved respecting her own would-be authorship.
August 6. Thursday.—This afternoon several of us went to see the Stockmoors, in the quaint old whitewashed farm-house, where they live, and where Mr. Stockmoor's parents and grandparents lived before him. It stands in a small garden, close to the road, about fifteen minutes' walk up the Dale. The farm seems to include little besides pasture for cows and sheep. Mrs. Stockmoor makes butter, but not on any large scale. Mr. Stockmoor is Churchwarden, and evidently is a man much respected.
A kind welcome was accorded, and they took us over the house, pointing out some old and interesting articles of furniture. The Stockmoors have three or four comfortable rooms, which they let to lodgers in the summer. Nobody is here now: but, to my surprise, I suddenly heard a mention of the name "Denham;" and an inquiry brought out the fact, unknown to me before, that Lady Denham and Sir Keith have twice spent a month in these very lodgings.
We were all together in the quaint good-sized sitting-room. It has big ceiling-beams, two small lattice-windows, huge fireplace, old-fashioned chairs, and whitewashed porch opening on the garden, with a lovely view all up the Dale to the massive terminating mountain heights. Yes,—very beautiful and most attractive, I thought, but somehow I could not quite picture Sir Keith and his mother there, fresh from the stately plenishings of Glynde Park. I tried to imagine Lady Denham rocking herself to and fro in the rocking-chair of indefinite age, just then giving amusement to Popsie and Pet; and I found myself in danger of laughter. Then I heard an exclamation from Maggie:
"Only think! Millie, do you hear? Mrs. Stockmoor says Lady Denham means to come very soon; and she has written to take the rooms."
"Sir Keith too?" somebody asked, and Maggie's cheeks gained a vivid hue. She and "Millie" exchanged glances, whereupon Maggie's eyes drooped.
"Not very likely that Lady Denham would come all this way north without him," Thyrza remarked, with a curt and vexed air, as if she disliked the notion.
Mrs. Stockmoor could not say. She hoped so,—such a very nice gentleman as he was. And if the gentleman that was coming first, perhaps, was to—but there she stopped abruptly, twisting her apron round her fingers. I had caught a warning look telegraphed from one of the daughters to the mother. No one else seemed to have perceived this, and Nona asked—