“Truly, Hans, you did so,” answered Edith; “and right thankful should we all be, first to the Lord, and then to my Lord Dilston, that my dear mother can now journey in safety and comfort.”
Lady Louvaine said, softly, “Bless the Lord! and may He bless this kind friend! Truly, I marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good to me. It must be, surely, for my dead Aubrey’s sake.”
“Oh, of course,” said young Aubrey, laughing; “they all hate you, Madam, you may be sure.”
His grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him.
Now came the Murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, Temperance carrying a heavy basket, and Faith bearing no greater weight than her handkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping.
“Good-morrow, Madam,” said Aunt Temperance as she came in. “A fine day for our journey.”
“You’re to ride in a caroche, Aunt Temperance!” cried Aubrey.
“Who—me? No, I thank you, my young Master. I never set foot in such a thing in my life, nor never will by my good will. I like the feel of a horse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o’er gilding—I’d as soon go on a broomstick. Whose is it?”
“’Tis my Lord Dilston’s, that hath most kindly proffered it to Mother for the journey,” replied Edith. “We had settled that we four, with Lettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be on horseback, Temperance—”
“That would I, by ten mile,” said she. “I hate being cooped up in a four-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing’s no better. Faith’ll go, I don’t doubt; any thing that’s a bit smart and showy!! take her: and Lettice may please herself. I dare say the child will have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life.”