‘Do you think mamma would give you leave to go up with me? Should you like it?’
She coloured all over; too happy even to thank him.
‘Then,’ said Guy to his tutor, ‘I will meet you here when you have done your business in the town, in an hour or so. Poor little thing, she has not many pleasures.’
Mrs. Dixon made no difficulty, and was so profuse in thanks that Guy got out of her way as fast as he could, and was soon on the soft thymy grass of the hill-side, the little girl frisking about him in great delight, playing with Bustle, and chattering merrily.
Little Marianne was a delicate child, and her frolic did not last long. As the ascent became steeper, her breath grew shorter, and she toiled on in a resolute uncomplaining manner after his long, vigorous steps, till he looked round, and seeing her panting far behind, turned to help her, lead her, and carry her, till the top was achieved, and the little girl stood on the topmost stone, gazing round at the broad sunny landscape, with the soft green meadows, the harvest fields, the woods in their gorgeous autumn raiment, and the moorland on the other side, with its other peaks and cairns, brown with withered bracken, and shadowed in moving patches by the floating clouds. The exhilarating wind brought a colour into her pale cheeks, and her flossy curls were blowing over her face.
He watched her in silence, pleased and curious to observe how beautiful a scene struck the childish eye of the little Londoner. The first thing she said, after three or four minutes’ contemplation—a long time for such a child—was, ‘Oh! I never saw anything so pretty!’ then presently after, ‘Oh! I wish little brother Felix was here!’
‘This is a pleasant place to think about your little brother,’ said Guy, kindly; and she looked up in his face, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! do you know about Felix?’
‘You shall tell me’ said Guy. ‘Here, sit on my knee, and rest after your scramble.’
‘Mamma never lets me talk of Felix, because it makes her cry,’ said Marianne; but I wish it sometimes.’
Her little heart was soon open. It appeared that Felix was the last who had died, the nearest in age to Marianne, and her favourite playfellow. She told of some of their sports in their London home, speaking of them with eagerness and fondness that showed what joys they had been, though to Guy they seemed but the very proof of dreariness and dinginess. She talked of walks to school, when Felix would tell what he would do when he was a man, and how he took care of her at the crossings, and how rude boys used to drive them, and how they would look in at the shop windows and settle what they would buy if they were rich. Then she talked of his being ill—ill so very long; how he sat in his little chair, and could not play, and then always lay in bed, and she liked to sit by him, there; but at last he died, and they carried him away in a great black coffin, and he would never come back again. But it was so dull now, there was no one to play with her.