The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret—caressing to all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.
So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from Stoneborough.
Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little trouble.
He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in her hand.
“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora?”
“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr. Ogilvie,” said Flora.
“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad! I have wanted so much to see him!”
“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora.
“Do you know him?” said Meta.
“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin—Norman Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.”