“Most wonderful—most extraordinary—most—most beautiful!” said Merry, speaking almost with passion. “We’re going to your school; yes, to yours—to Aylmer House, in September. Could you have believed it? Think of father consenting, and just because I felt a little discontented. Oh, isn’t he an angel? Father, of all people, who until now would not hear of our leaving home! But we’re going.”
“Well,” said Aneta, “I am not greatly surprised, for I happen to know that your father, Cousin Cyril, came to see auntie yesterday, and afterwards he went to visit Mrs. Ward, and after his visit we saw Mrs. Ward; and, although he had not quite made up his mind then whether he would send you or not, we quite thought he would do so. Yes, this is 63 splendid. I’ll he able to tell you lots about the school; but, after all, it isn’t the school that matters.”
“Then what matters, Aneta?”
“It’s Mrs. Ward herself,” said Aneta; “it’s she who makes the whole thing so perfect. She guides us; she enlightens us. Sometimes I can scarcely talk of her, my love for her and my passion for her are so deep.”
Cicely and Merry looked thoughtful for a minute.
“I’m ready now to come downstairs,” said Aneta; and they went down, to find supper prepared for them, and the old butler waiting to attend on his young ladies.
After the meal was over the girls retired to the drawing-room, where they all three sat by one of the windows waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew’s return.
Merry then said, “It is so funny of you, Aneta, to speak as though the school was Mrs. Ward.”
“But it is,” said Aneta.
“Surely, surely,” said Merry, “it’s the girls too.”