Perhaps half-a-dozen people traversed it in a day, for all patients, visitors, and tradespeople used the straighter road that led to the side of the house.
A fence ran along either side of the wide, green road, guarding property which was wild bush at present, but might some day have a value. And bracken and wild grass crept from beneath the two rail barriers and boldly made a springing place of the road itself. Rarely was buggy or cart so reckless of its internal economy as to make a way across the [295] ]ruts and tree-stumps, so the blue vine clambered at will over the stumps and flung delicate tendrils and flower-smothered loops to catch the feet.
Dolly was coming down this road while Phyl’s personal appearance was under criticism. In her hand she grasped something white very, very tightly. She was running almost all the time, stumbling over the ruts, caught in the creepers. On, on she came, with a face where the scarlet colours ebbed and flowed in the strangest way—on, on, over the shallow little stream where Freddie gave the bull-frogs no peace. Up, up the green rise—bursting in at the gate, and leaving it welcomely open for the grateful, vagrant cow. Up a green bank and recklessly across the flower-beds,—the circling drive was impossible—then up the steps and into the hall. Here a loose mat caught her feet, and she found herself on the floor. “Phyl! Phyl!” she called in a breathless voice; and now her fingers went to slit open the white envelope. She did not attempt to get up.
Phyl was in the hall. Clif was there, too, and the mother. At intervals up the staircase occurred Weenie and Freddie and Richie. Ted put his head over the banisters. “What’s the row?” he said.
And there, on the floor, was Dolly with a bit of paper in her hand, laughing, choking, crying. She denied the last afterwards, but Freddie declared her eyes were “as red as anything, and as wet as water.”
[296]
]Some one shook her; perhaps it was Phyl, incredulous that Dolly could have a secret that she had not shared.
Richie’s voice was heard urging her to “stop being a little donkey;” and Dolly made a wild effort after the control of her lips and voice.
“I’ve—I’ve—I’ve——” she said, and excitement grasped her throat again, and she merely laughed and choked. Some one shook her again. “I’ve—written a b—book,” she said, thus urged.
Some one snatched the paper from her, half-a-dozen heads tried to crowd round and read it at the same time. A most business-like epistle it was, with the printed name of a well-known publisher at the top, and a cable address, and other important things about it. And, “Dear Madam,” it said,—such was Dolly’s excitement the very “Madam” appealed to her as the most exquisitely humorous thing in the world.
“Dear Madam,