“I little thought you would ever see him again alive, ma’am; it was touch and go with him once, I can tell you,” observed Cox gravely.
“I must go now and see about dinner,” seizing her keys and bustling about, “but you will tell me all about it when you dine with me by-and-by, Mr. Cox,” said Mrs. Morris, as, followed by the footman and housemaid, she hurried from the room.
CHAPTER VII.
“MARY, IT IS MY HUSBAND!”
Alice and Mary were to be found under the cedars, a very favourite resort of theirs those August evenings. A round wicker table stood between them, upon which were all the requirements of afternoon tea. Alice, leaning back in a low garden-chair, was reading to Mary, who was knitting, “A Princess of Thule.” How pretty she looked! The sun, glancing through the sombre branches, fell in stray flecks on her hair and dress—a white cambric trimmed with quantities of lace and knots of pale-blue ribbon. She was twirling a carnation in her fingers as she read. But there was a grave melancholy expression in her downcast face, sad to see in one so young. Coming to the end of a chapter, she paused and exclaimed, looking up:
“Well, I must confess, the Princess of Thule ran away from her husband on very small provocation. Don’t you think so, Molly?”
Molly, instead of replying, said, as she gazed intently over Alice’s head:
“Why, who is this young man coming over here with Miss Saville?”
“Young man?” echoed Alice indifferently, and without turning her head; “oh, it must be the postmaster. Auntie promised him a quantity of geranium and carnation cuttings.”
“Does the postmaster wear well-cut clothes and a dark moustache? Is the postmaster a gentleman?”
“No, you ridiculous girl,” turning and looking over her shoulder. After a minute’s dead silence, “Mary,” she gasped, “it is my husband!”