As we sat together at tea that evening, Eleanor went back to the subject of the church. I made some remark about the gravestones in the aisles, and she said, “Next time we go in, I want to show you one of them in the chancel.”
“Who is buried there?” I asked.
“My grandfather, he was vicar, you know, and my aunt, who was sixteen. (My father has got the white gloves and wreath that were hung in the church for her. They always used to do that for unmarried girls.) And my sister; my only sister—little Margaret.”
I could not say anything to poor Eleanor. I stroked her head softly and kissed it.
“One thing that made me take to you,” she went on, “was your name being Margaret. I used to think she might have been like you. I have so wished I had a sister. The boys are very dear, you know; but still boys think about themselves, of course, and their own affairs. One has more to run after them, you know. Not that any boys could be better than ours, but—anyway, Margery darling, I wish you weren’t here just on a visit, but were going to stop here always, and be my sister!”
“So do I!” I cried. “Oh! so very much, Eleanor!”
CHAPTER XXII.
A NEW HOME—THE ARKWRIGHTS’ RETURN—THE BEASTS—GOING TO MEET THE BOYS—JACK’S HATBOX—WE COME HOME A RATTLER.