“Never mind,” she said, “this salt wind is delightful. How like old times it is!” and she stood gazing across the little steep lawn at the grey sea, the line of houses following the curve of the bay, and straggling up the valley in the rear, and the purple headlands projecting point beyond point, showing them to her boys, and telling their names.
“It is all ugly and cold,” said Francis, with an ungracious shiver. “I shall go home to Melbourne when I’m a man.”
“And you will come, mamma?” added Conrade.
He had no answer, for Fanny was in her aunt’s arms; and, like mother and daughter, they clung to each other—more able to sympathize, more truly one together, than the young widow could be with either of the girls.
As soon as Fanny had rested and enjoyed the home atmosphere downstairs, she begged to visit the dear old rooms, and carried Conrade through a course of recognitions through the scarcely altered apartments. Only one had been much changed, namely, the schoolroom, which had been stripped of the kindly old shabby furniture that Fanny tenderly recollected, and was decidedly bare; but a mahogany box stood on a stand on one side; there was a great accession of books, and writing implements occupied the plain deal table in the centre.
“What have you done to the dear old room—do you not use it still?” asked Fanny.
“Yes, I work here,” said Rachel.
Vainly did Lady Temple look for that which women call work.
“I have hitherto ground on at after-education and self-improvement,” said Rachel; “now I trust to make my preparation available for others. I will undertake any of your boys if you wish it.”
“Thank you; but what is that box?”—in obedience to a curious push and pull from Conrade.