However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby, who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned—he could not be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail—but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of Nanny Brooks.
So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May’s coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest either sketched, or wandered, or botanised. Flora acted the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta’s admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate, confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta’s unfeigned enthusiasm for the doctor was the sure road to Ethel’s heart. She was soon telling how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in to-day’s scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach of Harry’s departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora’s first letter on the news of last October’s misfortune.
“My aunt in New Zealand,” explained Ethel.
“Have you an aunt in New Zealand?” cried Meta. “I never heard of her!”
“Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!”
“Is she Dr. May’s sister?”
“No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma’s sister. I don’t remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora’s going away.”
“Did she live with them?”
“Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr. Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here.”
“Perhaps she will come.”