CHAPTER III.
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the newest and finest wear-a?
Come to the pedlar,
Money’s a medlar.
That doth utter all men’s ware-a.
Winter’s Tale.
“This one day and it will be over, and we shall be rational again,” thought Ethel, as she awoke.
Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the morning, and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who were frantic to have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys were to walk at their own time, and the children to be brought later by Miss Bracy. The doctor would be bound by no rules.
It was a pattern day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, perfect for an out-of-doors fete; and Ethel had made up her mind to fulfil her promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the brilliant sunshine, and between two such happy sisters, it would have been surly, indeed, not to enter into the spirit of the day; and Ethel laughed gaily with them, and at their schemes and hopes; Blanche’s heart being especially set on knowing the fate of a watch-guard of her own construction.
Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired thither at once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them; a marquee, almost converted into a bower, bounding it on either side, while in the midst arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of flowers—contributions from all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood—to be sold for the benefit of the bazaar. Their freshness and fragrance gave a brightness to the whole scene, while shrinking from such light, as only the beauteous works of nature could bear, was the array accomplished by female fingers.
Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with bright colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over-minute knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder glowing Eastern pattern of scarlet, black, and blue, was, in fact, a judicious mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds begged from the tailor, that the delicate lace-work consisted of Miss Bracy’s perpetual antimacassars, and that the potichomanie could look so dignified and Etruscan.
“Here you are!” cried Meta Rivers, springing to meet them. “Good girls, to come early. Where’s my little Daisy?”
“Coming in good time,” said Ethel. “How pretty it all looks!”