“I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet every one allows that his daughter is charming.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. WYNNE IS A WIDOWER.
The first opportunity that Madeline could find she ventured a visit to the Holts. It was a lovely June morning as she walked up to the front entrance of the sequestered Farm. She found Harry—her Harry, a pretty little fellow with fair soft hair and surprised dark eyes, sitting alone upon the doorstep, and nursing a pointer pup. It was useless for her to ask in her most winning manner—
“Harry dear, don’t you know me? Darling, I am your own mother; your own mummy!”
Harry simply frowned and shook his curls, and clutched the puppy tightly in his clasp as if he meant to throttle it.
Presently Mrs. Holt came upon the scene, with turned-up sleeves, and stout bare arms, fresh from the dairy. She was exceedingly civil, and exceedingly cool; invited Miss West into the little parlour, dusted a chair for her, and did her best to soften the rigidity and hauteur of little Harry’s aspect.
After some conversation about his double teeth, the weather, and Nice, she said—
“Suppose you and he just go round the garden, ma’am, and make friends. I’ll leave you to yourselves, whilst I go and see after the dinner.”
“But pray don’t get anything extra for me, Mrs. Holt,” implored Madeline. “Just what you have yourselves. I shall be very angry if you make a stranger of me.”
Mrs. Holt muttered some incoherent reply, and went away saying to herself—