"Have patience—ourselves are full
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams
Are but the needful preludes of the truth.
This fine old world of ours is but a child
Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time
To learn its limbs—there is a Hand that guides."
The carriage containing the happy mother and her children went merrily on its way to Bristol.
The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells.
Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young tassels hanging on the birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the woods with surpassing beauty.
The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close, after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice, with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in the "dickey" behind, was wide awake. He was a noble-looking boy of five years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage, he sang lustily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses' feet:
"Home—home—home to father."
His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of "Home—home to Gilbert."
Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone with that soft light of motherhood and happy wifehood which we look for in vain on many faces which are beautiful, but lack something. Her own mother acknowledged the charm, and often thought how much dearer and more beautiful Joyce had become in her eyes since her marriage, and how the father who had loved her so dearly would have rejoiced to see her now.
This thought was in her mind when Joyce said:
"Is not Lota too heavy for you, mother? Shall we change? Let me give you baby."