"Yes, so he did," Dinah replied. "Robins are my favourite birds, because they sing in the winter when all the others are silent. Let me see, what was it we were talking about? Oh, I know! Yes, it must have been about a year ago when we first met you, Angel; I remember so well father calling me downstairs and introducing me to you."
"Yes. And he told you to amuse me, and give me some tea," Angel broke in eagerly; "and, oh, how shy I felt when you led me upstairs, and into the dining-room!"
"Yes!" Dora cried; "and Tom laughed at you, and afterwards Gilbert was nasty because he fancied you were staring at him because he was lame and walked with crutches. I'm afraid you didn't like us much."
"There you are mistaken. I liked you and Dinah, you were so kind; and I think I loved your mother from the very first moment I saw her. Little did I think then that I should soon get to know you so well, or that my home would be at Wreyford too!"
"It was that very day Dora and I discovered Haresdown House was taken," Dinah remarked reflectively; "I remember we had been for a walk, and had rested here just as we are doing this afternoon. I had been telling Dora all about poor old Ezekiel Hassal, who was parish clerk here in Oliver Cromwell's time—you know his story—and as we were going home we noticed the board had been taken down from the garden of Haresdown House. Then, when we reached home, Gilbert told us the place had been bought by an Australian gentleman, and whilst he was explaining to us what you and your uncle were like, we looked out of the window, and saw you and Mr. Bailey and father at the garden gate. Oh, Angel, how you have altered since then!"
"Have I?" Angel exclaimed in surprise. "How? In what way do you mean?"
"You've grown, and become plump and rosy. You used to be such a pale little thing, with large grey eyes that looked too big for your face," Dinah responded promptly.
"Tom said they were owly, like a young bird's," Dora said, gazing at her friend scrutinously; "but they're not a bit like that now, are they, Dinah?"
"No, indeed! Then, you had such an old-fashioned way of talking, as though you were a grownup person. I remember you told mother you had not 'the artistic temperament'; I have so often wondered what you meant by that.
"Was it an odd thing to say? Yes, I dare say it was." Angel laughed merrily, then became suddenly grave. "When I was a little girl," she said thoughtfully— "oh, long before my mother died!—father used to put a pencil in my hand, and try to get me to draw, but I never had the least idea about copying anything, and he would look so disappointed. One day I overheard mother and father talking about me, and father said 'She has not the artistic temperament.' Of course I had no idea what he meant, but I somehow understood from the sound of his voice that he was sorry. When I grew older, and knew I had been called Angelica after Angelica Kauffmann, the painter, I began to see why father couldn't help being a little disappointed, and I never forgot his words; it seemed to me to be dreadful that an artist's daughter shouldn't have 'the artistic temperament.' I used to trouble about it, but I don't now. If I can't draw and paint, I can sew, and do other things."