“Aunt Sara, Fairy is not strong, not fit for long journeys or excursions, late hours, or a foreign climate. Our doctor said it would be madness for her to venture, and that was one reason. She changed her mind of her own accord. She has always been the family pet.”
“But you mention one reason. What was the other?”
Honor now became scarlet. “It was no harm—I would rather not say,” she stammered; “you will know some day,” and she looked desperately distressed.
“I wonder if she would come out now?” said Mrs. Brande, musingly. “We can put up two as easy as one. Eh, P.? The Hadfields expect Gerty in November. She might come with her, and get five or six months’ fun after all. It will give her something to talk of in future, and unless I’m mistaken, she will give people something to talk about. Eh, P.?”
Mr. Brande was slowly perusing his niece’s letter, but it did not appeal to him; it had a cringing fawning smack. Bright-eyed, impetuous Honor could never have penned such an epistle.
“There is a letter on the ground that you have not seen, Mrs. Brande,” said Mark Jervis, as he picked it up.
“So there is, I declare; it is from Mrs. Primrose. I’m sure she wants me to see about getting her house aired. She is rather late up this season.” Mrs. Brande ran her eyes over the paper, and gave vent to an expression of genuine dismay.
“What is the matter?” inquired her husband quickly.
“She cannot get away for ten days, and she is afraid to keep the child down there any longer, the heat is so awful. She wants me to take her?”
“O Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Brande. “We would sooner take anything—short of small-pox. Wire at once—no room here—there are telegraph forms on my writing-table.”