The best things.
A rose which falleth from the hand, which fadeth in the breast,
Until in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best.
Mrs Browning.
Everything went on quite smoothly until the day fixed for the picnic came. Aunt Sarah gave no hint of any objection; the weather was gloriously hot and fine; Anna’s new white dress was very pretty—there was nothing wanting to her long-desired enjoyment.
She stood amongst the nodding roses in the porch, waiting for the Palmers to call for her in their carriage, on the way to Alderbury. Aunt Sarah was, perhaps, to drive over and join the party later. Anna had dismissed all troublesome thoughts. She felt sure she was going to be very happy, and that nothing unlucky would happen to spoil her pleasure. She was in gay spirits, as she fastened a bunch of the little cluster-roses in her dress. Isabel had once told her that she looked very pretty in white, and she was glad to feel that she suited the beauty of the bright summer day.
“Anna!” said Mrs Forrest’s voice from the hall within.
Anna turned. The hall looked dark and shadowy after the sunshine, but it was easy to see that there was vexation on her aunt’s face as she studied the letter in her hand.
“I have just had a note from Dr Hunt,” she said. “Mr Goodwin, your grandfather, is not very well.”
“What is the matter?” asked Anna.
She left the porch and went up to her aunt’s side.
“Why, I can’t quite make out. Dr Hunt talks of fever, but says there is nothing infectious. Brought on by over-exertion in the heat, he thinks. He says you may safely go to see him—”