“I came home yesterday—Mary wrote to tell you.”
“Poor dear old Mary! There’s a lesson against taking a letter on trust. I thought it would be all Cocksmoor, and would wait for a quiet moment! How good to come to me so soon, you dear old shipwrecked mariner!”
“I was forced to come to report myself,” said Harry, “or I could not have come away from my father so soon.”
The usual questions and their sad answers ensued, and while Flora talked to Harry, fondly holding his hand, Norman and Meta explained the history to George, who no sooner comprehended it, that he opined it must have been a horrid nuisance, and that Harry was a gallant fellow; then striking him over the shoulder, welcomed him home with all his kind heart, told him he was proud to receive him, and falling into a state of rapturous hospitality, rang the bell, and wanted to order all sorts of eatables and drinkables, but was sadly baffled to find him already satisfied.
There was more open joy than even at home, and Flora was supremely happy as she sat between her brothers, listening and inquiring till far past one o’clock, when she perceived poor George dozing off, awakened every now and then by a great nod, and casting a wishful glance of resigned remonstrance, as if to appeal against sitting up all night.
The meeting at breakfast was a renewal of pleasure. Flora was proud and happy in showing off her little girl, a model baby, as she called her, a perfect doll for quietness, so that she could be brought in at family prayers; “and,” said Flora, “I am the more glad that she keeps no one away, because we can only have evening prayers on Sunday. It is a serious thing to arrange for such a household.”
“She is equal to anything,” said George.
The long file of servants marched in, George read sonorously, and Flora rose from her knees, highly satisfied at the impression produced upon her brothers.
“I like to have the baby with us at breakfast,” she said; “it is the only time of day when we can be sure of seeing anything of her, and I like her nurse to have some respite. Do you think her grown, Norman?”
“Not very much,” said Norman, who thought her more inanimate and like a pretty little waxen toy, than when he had last seen her. “Is she not rather pale?”