She was walking slowly and the kind clergyman attributed her leisurely pace to dejection, but as a matter of fact, Edith was feeling quite happy and much interested in the tiny bright yellow snail shells the beach was providing for entertainment. She had been spared all that was possible of the depression and sorrow of the past weeks. Daddy had been poorly for years and Edith could not remember him as ever well and strong. His loss affected her more because it grieved Estelle, the only mother she had known.
There had been a few sad confused days when nothing seemed real, and strangers had been kind in a way that Estelle accepted with a sort of resentful patience, plain even to Edith. But since then, life had been rather cheerful, with a great deal of attention from Nurse, and Estelle's time almost wholly given to her. It was gratifying to share Sister's confidence and to help arrange the rooms attractively for the possible delightful people who ought to come to lodge with them.
That they might not be delightful, Sister would not admit for a moment, so of course they would be. St. Aubin's itself was far more desirable as a place of residence than the noisy Exeter street where Edith had spent much of her life. Far back in the past she could just remember a charming Surrey village with a pretty vine-covered church where Daddy used to preach. She could recall exactly how her fat legs dangled helplessly from the high pew seat. Directly behind sat a stout farmer with four sons. The boys made faces at Edith on the sly; their mother sometimes gave her peppermints.
Edith's thoughts had wandered rather far afield, though still alert for any gleam of the yellow shells, when she arrived opposite Noirmont Terrace and reluctantly left the sands. A light shone from the drawing-room and she knew that Annette would be bringing in supper, and Sister would be found poring over a little account book with a "don't speak just now" look in her eyes.
But Estelle proved to be waiting at the open door and as Edith began to run on catching sight of her, she thought that Sister somehow looked happier.
"Did you meet Mr. Angus?" Estelle inquired. "He went toward the sands."
"I saw him in the distance," replied Edith. "Why, Star, you look like—like a star," she ended laughing. "Was Mr. Angus agreeable? Did he say you oughtn't to take people?"
"I think he doesn't wholly disapprove now," answered Estelle gently.
"And he is going to do what he can toward sending pleasant lodgers.
Wouldn't it be nice if some dear old ladies should come and want to
stay with us all winter?"
"Just ladies?" queried Edith. "Do they have to be old?"
"I shouldn't take gentlemen," said Estelle. "Nurse wouldn't approve, and ladies would be pleasanter. Perhaps there might be a young mother and some ducky little children. How would you like that?"