Lucia would have preferred to take charge in her own dear home, with their employments around her, and their own servants; but she supposed that mother know best, and certainly a cottage in a wood had its attractions to a romantic girl of nineteen. But she inwardly wished, almost bitterly, that she had been consulted before the plans were formed. When, however, she had arrived home, her mother's boxes were already packed, and their house was let for several months to a family of title, who had come to London for the season.
Poor Lucia, with her aching head and disappointed heart, tried hard to be patient; but she thought that the children had never seemed so tiresome before, and the difficulties seemed almost more than she could bear.
Evan, who was twelve, and had been the eldest at home during her long visit, seemed to have taken new airs upon him, and understood about everything so much better than she did.
Then Barbara (her darling generally) was also full of importance, helping nurse pack, and was the only one who could get Queenie to stop crying for her mother. Ivor and May had endless secrets, which they would not share with her. The maids were overwhelmingly busy in preparing the house for the fresh arrivals to-morrow, so that altogether Lucia was nearly distracted.
To-morrow morning! They were to go to-morrow morning! How was it possible that the confusion reigning around could be reduced to order by the next day?
She went to her room and looked round.
There were her boxes not even unpacked, but the one that stood open revealed a tennis dress which had been used only once, and which she remembered Alec Cransworth had said was very becoming. Oh, dear she should never wear that again while it was in fashion! Hot and angry tears splashed down her cheeks, she threw herself on her bed and wept despairingly.
If only her mother had proposed that she should bring home Emmie or Phyllis with her as a companion, it would not have been so bad. But to be shut up in a cottage with nurse and five tiresome children—
And then the quiet face of her aunt's housekeeper rose up before her mental vision, and she could almost hear her say, "Dear Miss Lucia, it makes all the difference if we love to do the Lord's will, and not our own. His will is always kindest and best."
"I do want to do His will," sobbed Lucia, "and I do want to be good and patient; but it is so bitterly hard to have your visit spoilt, and to be brought back to such a turmoil as this, without even having mother to share it!"