“I dare say we shall be very happy. I am most sorry about the school-children.”
“I don't care a fig about them,” said Reginald, impatiently; “there's that cricket match, and all.”
“What, not the poor little things, Reginald? just think how they have been expecting this day—it is quite an event for them, and we have so many pleasures: I dare say you will have the cricket the first fine day.”
Reginald felt rather ashamed, and yet unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong; therefore he satisfied himself with remarking, that Louis did not like cricket, and he didn't care about the children, and there was no difference.
Louis' attention was at that moment attracted by something on the table. “Oh! here is something for me, Reginald!—A beautiful new Bible from dear papa and mamma—and a church service from grandmamma, and what's this?—‘The Lady of the Manor’ from uncle and aunt Clarence; how kind, look Reginald! and here's another—a beautiful little red and gold book, ‘Mrs. Rowe's Poems,’ the book I am so fond of—from you: oh! thank you, dear Reginald.”
“And many happy returns of the day, dear Louis,” said Reginald, who had by this time completely recovered his ordinary good-humor.
At the foot of the stairs, when he descended, Louis met some of the young party, who hardly waited to offer the compliments of the day before they loudly expressed the disappointment felt by each at the unfavorable weather. “Raining, raining—nothing but splashing and dark clouds—so tiresome, so disappointing—we shall be obliged to stay in-doors,” sounded round him in different keys as they marched in close phalanx to the breakfast-room, where they found Bessie Vernon, a little girl of seven years old, kneeling on a chair at the window, singing, in the most doleful accents,
“Rain, rain, go to Spain,
And mind you don't come back again.”
“Good morning, Bessie,” said Louis.