It was so this day. Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse brushed up, and every worn buckle shining. Then Richard would go upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager welcome in her eye. She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard raised her in his arms, and had to carry her—grown so light—down to the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the drives of which she was never weary.
It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot—the little wood where the fallen tree was lying. Here, on sunny days, she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet, slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and Richard took his leave.
Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a foreboding on Richard’s part that it was to be the last. But still she lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits, and then fading again under the chilling blasts.
By some means Netta had informed herself of the return of the Rea family to town for the season, and she prepared to execute a little plan that had been long deferred. She had possessed herself of the note sent by Fin—the note which Richard had let fall. Probably Mrs Jenkles was the bearer of her messages, and had obtained the information she required. Suffice it that Tiny Rea, now somewhat recovered, but still pale and dejected, received one morning a note, which she read, and then placed in her mother’s hands.
It was as follows:—
“I have heard so often of your beauty, goodness, and your many acts of kindness, that I have been tempted to ask you to come once and see me before I pass away. I would say pray come, but I think your gentle heart will listen to my simple appeal. Come to me, and say good-bye.
“Netta Lane.”
Here followed the address.
“It’s some poor creature in great distress, my dear, who has heard of us. We’ll go this afternoon, and take her something.”
“Would you go, mamma?” faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the letter was from.
“Certainly, my dear. I shouldn’t rest to-night if I’d left such an appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there isn’t much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we’ve room for.”