“Well,” said Mrs Harcourt, “when I was a girl I used to read Sir Charles Grandison, but I took it down the other day and found it very lengthy.”
“Such a prig as Sir Charles Grandison never can have really existed,” said Hugh.
“Well, Hugh,” said the Rector, with a humorous twinkle, “we none of us know what we might come to under favourable circumstances. But, now, what day do you think to-morrow is?”
“Your wedding-day, Mr Harcourt,” said Mysie, after a moment’s pause. “I remember it was on Sunday last year, and you gave Mrs Harcourt an apricot.”
“Ah, you’re the little girl for a good memory. Our golden wedding. Yes, it’s fifty years ago that I married Mrs Harcourt, and she wore a dark green riding-habit for the occasion. Fifty years to be thankful for!”
“Fifty years ago!” said Mysie, rather awestruck.
“Yes,” said the Rector’s wife, “and we have asked the school-children to come up after school and drink our health; but not having such a good memory as Mysie I have forgotten some of them. If you could ask the little Woods, my dear, and the Masons to-morrow I should be glad.”
Mysie promised to do so, and distant chimes sounding on their ears reminded them that it was time to start for Oxley. Hugh and his mother went home, the old couple went slowly up their sunny garden-path together, while the young pair, lingering a little behind their companions, looked back and smiled.
“There’s our model, Mysie,” said Arthur, as he drew her hand through his arm. “In fifty years’ time—”
“Oh, don’t, Arthur!”