"Sit down, Frances—there, in the sun, it's so chilly in the shade—don't get into that corner behind me, my dear; I want to look at you. What do you think? I have got a letter, and news—great news! It is not often that news comes to the Firs in these days. What do you think, Frances? But you will never guess. Ellen's child is coming to live with us!"
"What?" said Frances. "What! Little Fluff we used to call her? I don't understand you, father; surely Ellen would never part with her child."
"No, my dear, that is true. Ellen and her child were bound up in each other; but she is dead—died three months ago in India. I have just received a letter from that good-for-nothing husband of hers, and the child is to leave school and come here. Major Danvers can't have her in India, he says, and her mother's wish was—her mother's last wish—that she should make her home with us. She will be here within a week after the receipt of this letter, Frances. I call it great news; fancy a young thing about the house again!"
Frances Kane had dark, straight brows; they were drawn together now with a slight expression of surprise and pain.
"I am not so old, father," she said; "compared to you, I am quite young. I am only eight-and-twenty."
"My dear," said the squire, "you were never young. You are a good woman, Frances, an excellent, well-meaning woman; but you were never either child or girl. Now, this little thing—how long is it since she and her mother were here, my love?"
"It was just before Cousin Ellen went to India," responded Frances, again knitting her brows, and casting back her memory. "Yes, it was six years ago; I remember it, because we planted the new asparagus bed that year."
"Ay, ay; and a very productive bed it turned out," responded the squire. "Fluff was like a ball then, wasn't she?—all curly locks, and dimples, and round cheeks, and big blue eyes like saucers! The merriest little kitten—she plagued me, but I confess I liked her. How old would she be now, Frances?"
"About seventeen," replied Frances. "Almost a grown-up girl; dear, dear, how time does fly! Well, father, I am glad you are pleased. I will read the letter, if you will let me, by and by, and we must consult as to what room to give the child. I hope she won't find it very dull."
"Not she, my dear, not she. She was the giddiest mortal—always laughing, and singing, and skipping about in the sunshine. Dear heart! it will do me good to see anything so lively again."