‘My poor darling! But couldn’t you write and get your uncle to look at some of my poor little verses that have never seen the light?’
‘I dare say I could,’ said Dolores, pleased to be able to patronize. ‘Oh, but you must not write on both sides of the paper, I know, for father and mother were always writing for the press.’
‘Oh, I’ll copy them out fresh! Here’s the ‘Evening Star.’ It was suggested by the sound of the guns firing at the autumn manoevres; here’s the ‘Bereaved Mother’s Address to her Infant:’
‘Sweet little bud of stainless white,
Thou’lt blossom in the garden of light.’
‘Mary thought that so sweet she asked Miss Mohun to send it to Friendly Leaves, but she wouldn’t—Miss Mohun I mean; she said she didn’t think they would accept it, and that the lines didn’t scan. Now I’m sure its only Latin and Greek that scan! English rhymes, and doesn’t scan! That’s the difference!’
‘To be sure!’ said Dolores, ‘but Aunt Jane always does look out for what nobody else cares about. Still I wouldn’t send the baby-verses to Uncle Alfred, for they do sound a little bit goody, and the ‘Evening Star’ would be better.’
The verses were turned over and discussed until the summons came to tea, poured out by kind old Miss Hacket, who had delighted in providing her young guests with buttered toast and tea cakes.
Dolores went home quite exhilarated and unusually amiable.
Her letter to her father was finished the next day. It contained the following information.
‘Uncle Alfred is at Darminster. He is sub-editor to the Politician, the Liberal county paper. I do not suppose Aunt Lilias will let me see him, for she does not like anything that dear mother did. There is a childish obsolete tone of mind here; I suppose it is because they have never lived in London, and the children are all so young of their age, and so rude, Wilfred most especially. Even Gillian, who is sixteen, likes quite childish games, and Mysie, who is my age, is a mere child in tastes, and no companion. I do wish I could have gone with you.’