"So we have said for a great many to-morrows, but it is always put off. What do you think, mother—is the little maid strong enough?"
Mrs. Halifax hesitated; said something about "east winds."
"Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east winds, and played out of doors as the boys do. Would you not like it, Muriel?"
The child shrank back with an involuntary "Oh, no."
"That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less strong than the lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas?" continued her father, hastily, for I was watching them.
"Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather comes. We have had such a severe winter. Every one of the children has suffered," said the mother, in a cheerful tone, as she poured out a cup of cream for her daughter, to whom was now given, by common consent, all the richest and rarest of the house.
"I think every one has," said John, looking round on his apple-cheeked boys; it must have been a sharp eye that detected any decrease of health, or increase of suffering, there. "But my plan will set all to rights. I spoke to Mrs. Tod yesterday. She will be ready to take us all in. Boys, shall you like going to Enderley? You shall go as soon as ever the larch-wood is green."
For, at Longfield, already we began to make a natural almanack and chronological table. "When the may was out"—"When Guy found the first robin's nest"—"When the field was all cowslips"—and so on.
"Is it absolutely necessary we should go?" said the mother, who had a strong home-clinging, and already began to hold tiny Longfield as the apple of her eye.
"I think so, unless you will consent to let me go alone to Enderley."