“And this is our senator!” thought Ethel. “I wonder whether Honorius’s hen was a Shanghai! Poor Flora is right—it is poor work to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear! but, putting him into the place is one thing, taking him out another. I wish she would take advice; but I never knew her do that, except as a civil way of communicating her intentions. However, she is not quite what she was! Poor dear! Aunt Flora will never believe what a beautiful creature she used to be! It seems wrong to think of her going back to that horrid London; but I can’t judge. For my part, I’d rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good, kind-hearted fellow after all! I won’t be a crab!”
So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye—all she could say for him—and George instructed her to admire the awkward legs, and invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in two days’ time—and they sent him away to continue his consultations with the poultry woman, which pullets should be preferred as candidates for a prize.
“Meta set him upon this,” said Flora. “I hope you will go, Ethel. You see he can be very happy here.”
“Still,” said Ethel, “the more I think, the more sure I am that you ought to ask advice.”
“I have asked yours,” said Flora, as if it were a great effort. “You don’t know what to say—I shall do what I see to be the only way to rest.”
“I do know what to say,” said Ethel; “and that is, do as the Prayer-book tells you, in any perplexity.”
“I am not perplexed,” said Flora.
“Don’t say so. This is either the station to which God has called you, or it is not.”
“He never called me to it.”
“But you don’t know whether you ought to leave it. If you ought not, you would be ten times more miserable. Go to Richard, Flora—he belongs to you as much as I—he has authority besides.”