"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago she died."
"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway, I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."
"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'" and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.
John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child. His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall, cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the Hall.
"John! John!" cried Theodore presently, "look at this clump of anemones!"
"Aye, aye, sir; all in bloom, ain't they?"
"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up after the snow!"
"The snow protects the flowers, Master Theodore."
"Does it? How strange!"
"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm—warm as a blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants. The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is—on a grand scale."