"Some time mother and I will have such a lovely holiday together," the little girl told herself consolingly, "and we must look forward till then!"
[CHAPTER XIV]
CONCERNING THE ARRIVAL OF MURIEL WAKE AND
MOLLY JENKINS
BOSCOMBE was a quaint little village, composed of one long, steep street of white-washed cottages occupied by the fishing folk, whose wives might generally be seen of an evening gossiping on their doorsteps, their fingers busily engaged in knitting navy blue jerseys.
On an eminence at the top of the street was the church, an ancient edifice of granite, with a small graveyard encircling it; and close by stood the vicarage, a substantial building of red sandstone, almost overgrown with ivy and other creepers.
Of late, overlooking the sea, had sprung up a row of brick villas, named Alma Terrace, that were let to lodging-house keepers, who reaped a good harvest during the summer months, as Boscombe was beginning to be rather better known than it had been, for the air from the Atlantic was bracing, and the scenery wildly beautiful along the coast, added to which there were fine sands, where children could find endless amusement in building castles and forts and in gathering shells.
Marigold's aunts had taken a suite of apartments in one of the new villas, where they were very comfortable and pleased with their surroundings. The little girl spent most of her days out-of-doors. In the morning she generally went out with her aunts, and amused herself whilst they worked or read in a sheltered nook, searching for anemones that hid themselves in the little pools between the rocks, or in collecting seaweeds to press between sheets of blotting-paper under her Aunt Pamela's instructions; and in the afternoon she would take a long walk with Barker, visiting different places of interest in the neighbourhood. She sometimes watched other children paddling and building castles in the sand with wistful eyes, wishing she dared ask her aunts to allow her to join them, but never plucking up courage to do so, fearing they would be horrified at the idea.
"Perhaps I am too old to run about without shoes and stockings," she thought, "but it must be lovely, I know!"
It was about a week after their arrival at Boscombe that Marigold was one morning seated with her aunts under the shelter of the sea-wall, when a pebble flung from behind, dropped into her lap, and a merry voice cried—