"Oh yes; he promised," replied Winnie assuredly. Then with a little burst of vehemence—"Dear Aunt Judith, I wish to enjoy myself so very, very much to-day, and be ever so happy."
All looked startled at the passion in the girl's voice, with the exception of Aunt Debby, who viewed everything in a practical light.
"So, so! very good indeed," she said, knitting industriously, and with added vigour. "We'll do our best to gratify your wish, child; and one ought to be specially happy at this season of the year, I suppose."
The talk then became general, and Aunt Meg, laying aside her fretful voice for the time being, wakened up and became the life of the small party, chatting in such a pretty, graceful manner, and seeming altogether so full of animation, that Winnie wondered if this could really be the cross, peevish invalid Nellie had so often described. Ere long, however, she learned that appearances are sometimes deceitful, and that a gentle face and plaintive air can often be assumed as occasion warrants. It so happened that just as Miss Deborah was preparing to see about the tea the postman's knock sounded at the door, and one of the dear home-letters was handed to Nellie.
"Please excuse me," she said to Winnie, breaking the seal and commencing to read; "the children have been ill with scarlet fever, and I am anxious to know if they are better."
The sheets were large and closely written, consequently some little time was spent over them; but at length the last word was read, and then Nellie, replacing the letter in its envelope, said with a happy smile, "Mother writes the little ones are improving daily, and she thinks they will soon be quite well. She sends you all her love, and is glad to hear Aunt Meg is feeling so much stronger. She hopes, if the improvement continues, to see either you, Aunt Judith, or Aunt Debby home with me in the summer-time."
The invalid's face darkened, and Miss Deborah's merry orbs twinkled ominously. Nothing suited Miss Margaret better than to pose as a saintly sufferer, burdened day by day with a weary load of never-ceasing pain. It was wonderfully pleasant at times to assume the rôle of the patient martyr, and talk of lonely days and nights borne without murmuring. But once hint at any visible improvement, once mention an increase of colour on the pallid cheeks or a clearer light in the dimmed eyes, and Aunt Meg's wrath knew no bounds. Having fathomed this secret in the invalid's nature, we can readily understand the twinkle lurking in Aunt Debby's orbs as she scented the coming storm.
"Who told you I was feeling better, Nellie?" demanded Miss Margaret; and Winnie started at the anger in the voice, only a few minutes since so soft and gentle. "Who gave you authority to utter—to write such a falsehood? Better!" (with infinite scorn), "and my poor frame racked with such excruciating pain. Do you imagine, because a load is borne with unmurmuring patience, that the weight is gradually lessening and the burden will soon be lifted? Answer me at once. Who dared to tell you I was much stronger?"
Nellie's amazement was extreme, but she replied quietly, while Winnie sat by Miss Latimer's side, every fibre of her mischievous nature quivering with thorough enjoyment. "I only said what I believed to be true, Aunt Meg. You have been looking better, and I heard Aunt Judith telling a lady the other week that there was a very marked improvement lately, and that she was thankful to be able to say so."
Miss Margaret cast a withering glance at Miss Latimer's quiet face.