'Oh, Miss Gwynne, how can we ever thank you enough for all this kindness?'
'By not thanking me at all,' replied Miss Gwynne, stooping to pick up a book, doubtless to conceal a very decided increase of colour.
These were the first genuine and natural words that Rowland had spoken to Miss Gwynne since those fatal sentences under the great oak in her father's park.
'It is all like a dream,' said Netta, passing her hand over her eyes and forehead, as she did constantly, as if to clear away some cloud that obscured her memory. 'If mother were only here, it would be quite home-like.'
Truly Gladys had made the room almost a pleasant place. The books and work she had brought with her, were already on the tables, and the flowers filled all the old-fashioned vases, taken from the mantelpiece. The fire was bright, and the hearth swept, and poor Netta and Minette were neat and clean.
'Uncle, what have you done with the geranium?' suddenly asked Minette.
'I left it at home, dear.'
'How cross of you, uncle, to let the pretty flower die.'
'I put it in water, Minette, because it came from Glanyravon, where your mother and I were born, and where your grandfather and grandmother live.'
'I don't like grandmamma, uncle, she was so fat, and talked so strangely.'