“I don’t know, I am not sure. He likes Harriet certainly next best after me; he may even like her better.”
“I think not: you are without doubt the favoured one. Robina, we are all alone now. Harriet Lane is your schoolfellow. Tell me honestly what you think about her.”
Robina sprang to her feet.
“As her schoolfellow,” she said, hastily, “I cannot tell you anything about her; please don’t ask me. This, Mr Durrant, is a very serious matter, and I—I would rather not say.”
“You have answered me, my child,” said Mr Durrant, “and as I thought you would. Now, we will talk no more on the matter.”
Robina left him, and went into the grounds. The happy summer days were slipping by. Why is it that summer days will rush past one so quickly on such swift wings, that almost before we know it, they have all gone—never, never to return?
The eight little school-mothers at Sunshine Lodge wanted no one good thing that could add to the joys of life. From morning till night, their cup of bliss seemed to overflow. In addition to all the pleasures provided for them, they had perfect weather, for that summer was long to be remembered in England—that summer when day by day the sun shone in the midst of a cloudless sky, and the warm, mellow air was a delight even to breathe.
While on this occasion Mr Durrant was having a long talk with Robina and giving her to understand what he really wished with regard to the future of his little son, that same little son was pouring out his heart to Harriet.
“You is better, isn’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Harriet, who had resolved to make the very most of things. “But I was ill, very ill indeed: I don’t think the doctor expected me to live.”