'A lovely morning, uncle, so balmy and soft. You can't think what a difference from yesterday, and there's a bird singing a spring song in my tree.'
Often yet she said such things. The grey monotony of her life had not quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love of all things beautiful.
'Warm, is it? Have you been out?'
'Not yet; but I opened my window and put my head out, and the air was quite mild. A spring morning, Uncle Abel, the first we have had this year.'
'Any sun?'
'Not yet, but he will be up by and by. How have you slept?'
'Pretty well. I am better this morning—quite well, in fact, and directly you have the fire on I'll get up.'
'Don't be rash, uncle, I really think you ought to stay in bed to-day.'
'No; I have something to do. How soon can you be ready—finished with your work, I mean? Have you anything you can leave ready for Wat's dinner?'
'Why, Uncle Abel?' asked Gladys, in surprise.