“It was nine years back, or more—if I don’t forget;
But as to the children, Fannie, they’re all about me yet.
Often they come to the door, in a pleasant kind of dream,
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed,—
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.”
Aunt Emma came into the garden on the last morning of the children’s visit, and calling them into the little arbor, said,
“I feel sorry, dears, to interrupt your merry games, but I think, as you are to travel all the afternoon, it is best you should rest now, so I propose sitting with you for a quiet talk, and that you may remain in the garden till the last moment, Celia will have lunch for us under the trees.”
“Oh! isn’t that nice, Auntie? We don’t mind one bit giving up, I Spy, and Lady Queen Annie she sits in the Sun, she sends you three letters and prays you read one,” cried Artie; and little Bear looking up eagerly said,
“Would it be too much trouble, Auntie, for you to tell us a good-bye story?”
“Certainly not, darling, but what shall it be about? You shall choose, Harry.”