However, this little girl is of such a happy nature in herself that she quickly grows happy anywhere. And the house she came to was such a beautiful house, with a conservatory full of flowers,—she is so fond of flowers,—and a large hall to play in besides. Her merry voice was soon heard in all directions, rather to her mamma’s distress, as the dear mistress of the house was not well. But Sunny comprehends that she must always speak in a whisper when people are not well; so she was presently quieted down, and came into the dining-room and ate her dinner by mamma’s side, as good as gold. She has always dined with mamma ever since she could sit up in a chair, so she behaves quite properly,—almost like a grown-up person. When she and mamma are alone, they converse all dinner-time; but when there are other people present, she is told that “little girls must be seen and not heard,”—a rule which she observes as far as she can. Not altogether, I am afraid, for she is very fond of talking.
Still, she was good, upon the whole, and enjoyed herself much, until she had her things put on again, ready to start once more, in a kind lady’s carriage, which was ordered to drive slowly along the shore, that Sunny might see as much as possible, without being exposed to the wind and spray. She was much interested, and a little awed. She ceased to chatter, and sat looking out of the carriage window on the curve of shore, over which the tide came pouring in long rollers, and sweeping back again in wide sheets of water mixed with white foam.
“Does Sunny like the waves?” asked the kind lady, who has a sweet way with children, and is very good to them, though she has none of her own.
“Yes, Sunny likes them,” said the little girl, after a pause, as if she were trying to make up her mind. “’Posing (supposing) Sunny were to go and swim upon them? If—if mamma would come too?”
“But wouldn’t Sunny be afraid?”
“No,” very decidedly this time. “Sunny would be quite safe if mamma came too.”
The lady smiled at mamma; who listened, scarcely smiling, and did not say a word.
It was a terrible day. The boats, and even big ships, were tossing about like cockle-shells on the gray, stormy sea; and the mountains, hiding themselves in mist, at last altogether disappeared. Then the rain began to fall in sheets, as it often does fall hereabouts,—soaking, blinding rain. At the station it was hardly possible to keep one’s footing: the little girl, if she had not been in her Lizzie’s arms, would certainly have been blown down before she got into the railway-carriage.
Once there,—safely sheltered from the storm,—she did not mind it in the least. She jumped about, and played endless tricks, to the great amusement of two ladies,—evidently a mamma and a grandmamma,—who compared her with their own little people, and were very kind to her,—as indeed everybody is when she travels. Still, even they might have got tired out, if Sunny had not fortunately grown tired herself, and began to yawn in the midst of her fun in a droll way.
Then mamma slyly produced out of her pocket the child’s best travelling companion,—the little Maymie’s apron. Sunny seized it with a scream of delight, cuddled down, sucking it, in her mamma’s arms, and in three minutes was sound asleep. Nor did she once wake up till the train stopped, and Lizzie carried her, so muffled up that nobody could have told whether it was a little girl or a brown paper parcel, to the carriage where faithful Franky waited for her, and had waited ever so long.