"It is as though a load has been lifted off my shoulders," Mr. Pringle confessed, as he returned to the sitting-room after having said good-bye to Mr. Tiddy at the front door. He sat down in an arm-chair as he spoke, and his little daughter took a stool at his feet and rested her golden head against his knee. "It seems so marvellous this invitation should have come for Peggy just at this very time," he proceeded earnestly, "when it seemed utterly impossible to carry out the doctor's prescription. Surely God must have prompted Mr. Tiddy to come to us to-day."
"Yes, and there's no one I would so gladly entrust Peggy to as my old friend," Mrs. Pringle answered contentedly. "You're pleased you're going, are you not, Peggy?" she questioned, noticing a faint shadow on her little daughter's face.
"Y-e-s," was the response, given a trifle doubtfully. The thought of a visit to Cornwall had filled Peggy with a transport of delight at first; but now, she had had time to reflect that she would have no mother and father and Billy with her, and she had never been parted from them before. "I shall miss you all so much," she murmured with quivering lips, "and Cornwall is so far away."
"We shall miss you, little Sunbeam," her father assured her as he softly stroked her curly hair, "but we are glad you are going, because we want you to get well and strong. I believe you will have a most enjoyable time, and, of one thing I am quite certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy will be kindness itself. I only hope they won't spoil you and want to keep you altogether."
"I shouldn't stay, if they did," Peggy returned, half indignant at the suggestion. "And—and I'm beginning to wish I wasn't going at all."
She lay awake a long while that night, crying at the thought of the coming separation from her family, but she did not admit it the next morning.
Mr. Tiddy spent Sunday with his new friends as had been arranged, and in the evening he accompanied them to St. John's. After the service, he waited with Mrs. Pringle and the children to hear the voluntary. It was "The Heavens are telling," which Mr. Pringle played at his visitor's request.
"Did you like it, Mr. Tiddy?" Peggy whispered at the conclusion of the piece as they passed out of the church.
"Yes, I liked it," he answered earnestly. "Your father plays the organ beautifully. 'The Heavens are telling the glory of God!' So they do, don't they?" They were in the street by now, Peggy's hand in the firm clasp of her new friend. "I can't tell how folks can prefer to live in town," he proceeded. "Give me the country and plenty of fresh air. Ah, my dear, I'll show you some rare sights in Cornwall—"
"You forget," interposed Peggy, "I cannot see."