“Too late,” groaned Mrs. Brande; “she has sent her off—‘trusting,’” quoting the letter, “to my ‘well-known kindness and good nature!’ I’m a great deal too good natured, that’s what I am,” said Mrs. Brande, with unusual irritation. “The child and ayah are actually at the station now, and will be here the day after to-morrow.”
“Then I shall clear out, if I can possibly manage it,” said her husband, emphatically.
“What is there about this child, Uncle Pel, that throws you and Aunt Sara into such a panic?”
“Panic! I thank thee, niece, for teaching me that word! Yes; the very word—panic. Oh! I forgot you and Jervis here are new-comers, but most of the North-West have seen, or heard of, or suffered from ‘Sweet Primrose.’”
“Sweet! What a name! A play on words, I suppose,” said Honor.
“And a gross misfit,” growled Mr. Brande.
“Pray give us a few more particulars, sir,” urged Mark. “Prepare us—put us on our guard.”
“She is six years of age—an only child—‘cela va sans dire.’ Extremely pretty, and graceful, and intelligent.”
“Ah, I believe I shall like her,” said the young man, with an appreciative nod. “I am prepared to be her champion. I’m rather fond of children—especially pretty little girls.”
“She is as sharp as a surgical needle, active, greedy, restless, prying—with a marvellous memory for the conversations of her elders, and an extraordinary facility in relating them! The things that child has said, with the air of a little innocent saint; the secrets she has divulged to a whole room; the malapropos questions she has put——”