Little tables were standing around, some filled with families, some having a couple of lovers; other parties were walking up and down; all in picturesque holiday attire. The tables were set out with small, hard brown cakes, slices of bread that each had brought to the feast. There was beer of course, merrymaking and jollity—but no one seemed to overstep the bounds. Children ran around, grotesque 154 copies of their elders. Rows of cottages and gardens, great corn and hayfields, stubble where cattle were browsing, enclosures of fattening pigs whose squealing had a mirthful sound.
“It is well worth looking at,” said Mr. Borden. “A bit of Europe on one of our islands and really a lesson to our own thriftless poor.”
Violet chattered in a funny fashion, but Pansy slept through it all. Marilla tried several times to shift her position, but the little form was too heavy to stir. Yet it was delightful, though she kept thinking of last Sunday and Dr. Richards.
Mr. Borden stopped at the gate and helped them out.
“Lift Pansy, she’s asleep,” said Aunt Florence.
“Oh, Marilla, why didn’t you keep her awake! I’ve been trying not to let them sleep in the afternoon so they would go to bed the earlier.”
“Just as you get a baby in good habits, someone comes along and spoils it all,” exclaimed Mrs. Borden in a vexed tone. She was a little tired, having answered at least fifty questions for Jack. 155
But Pansy woke when her father stood her down, and said, rather drowsily—“Nice horsey;” and sat squarely down in the path. Aunt Florence picked her up and led her to the porch.
“Now, Marilla, get their suppers ready and feed them. And put away their things. I can’t bear to see them lying round on chairs.”
Mr. Borden drove off, taking Jack.