“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
“Cyril!” cried Emily.
“Cyril, ’ooray!” shouted David.
“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet again.
“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?”
“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but the sound of the sluice—and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice.”
“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
“He’s a spoiled boy—I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade him. Let me help you—let me peel the apples—yes, yes—I will.”
She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said: