Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery.
He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable current of air—the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars; no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up, but it wilfully descends—they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high with their breath—there is a collision between Mary and Blanche—Aubrey perceives a taste of soapy water—the bubble is no more—it is vanished in his open mouth!
Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight—all rush to assist it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed! Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost branch—hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated—but earthwards! it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A general blank!
“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s baffled faces.
“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered.
“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for it.”
“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it, Norman.”
“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too obvious a rhyme.”
“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one joined in the outcry.
“Whose is it?”