Cherry came out to meet us, with our fourth boy, Fred. The two youngest, Bob and Teddy, were in bed. I knew in a moment that the others had not returned: for Jack never failed to give me a welcome, if I had been absent and he were at home.
It was not, however, till I asked Cherry that she said, “No, mother, they are not back yet. I suppose they have forgotten how time was going.”
This was an unusual matter. The boys knew well that their father and I liked them to be back early from such excursions. A trip into the country would have been a different matter; but London on Saturday evening was not so desirable. And they had Maimie with them!
“I suppose they have been drawn on farther than they thought,” Cherry added, as if in apology. “It is all so new to Maimie, you know, mother; and Jack was quite excited at taking her.”
“They would not find so very much to see at Westminster,” I said.
“The Abbey, mother, at any rate,—and they talked of a long ramble on the Embankment, and taking Maimie across two or three bridges. Oh, they will find plenty to show to a stranger; and Maimie says she can walk any distance. They must have mistaken the time. But they are sure to be in directly.”
“Directly” is an elastic word sometimes, and it seemed so in this instance. We brought out our work, to finish some little mending needful for the morrow. Fred was sent to bed, and my husband opened a book, but speedily went to sleep over it. After some time I said softly to Cherry—
“Aunt Briscoe will give us no help with Maimie.”
“Mother, did you think she would?” Cherry spoke in a tone of surprise.
“I should have been very glad,” I said.