“That's what he didn't! He has to be scrubbed with soap and water every morning, and his hair divided all the way down his back, like a Christian's, and his tail looks like a bunch of switch grass.”
“That 's the reason he has n't come out to meet me; the poor fellow is like his betters,—he's not quite sure that his altered condition improves him.”
“You have at least one satisfaction, brother Peter,” said Miss Dinah, sharply; “you find Darby just as dirty and uncared for as you left him.”
“By my conscience, there 's another of us is n't much changed since we met last,” muttered Darby, but in a voice only audible to himself.
“Oh, what a sweet cottage! What a pretty summer-house!” cried Josephine, as the carriage swept round the copse, and drew short up at the door.
“This summer-house is your home, Fifine,” said Miss Barrington, tartly.
“Home! home! Do you mean that we live here,—live here always, aunt?”
“Most distinctly I do,” said she, descending and addressing herself to other cares. “Where's Jane? Take these trunks round by the back door. Carry this box to the green-room,—to Miss Josephine's room,” said she, with a stronger stress on the words.
“Well, darling, it is a very humble, it is a very lowly,” said Barrington, “but let us see if we cannot make it a very happy home;” but as he turned to embrace her, she was gone.
“I told you so, brother Peter,—I told you so, more than once; but, of course, you have your usual answer, 'We must do the best we can!' which simply means, doing worse than we need do.”