The trio went into the dining-room, and Phyllis amused her father during dinner with accounts of Rosie and Susie and the two boys.
“I like the country,” she said to her father; “I am glad we have come to live at the Hall; I am glad about everything. I am very, very happy to-night.”
The Squire kissed her and petted her, and it was not until she was just going to bed that he broke a piece of news to her which she scarcely appreciated.
“My dear, it is good-bye as well as good-night.”
“Good-bye, Father? Why?” asked Phyllis.
“Because I have to go to town to-morrow early, long before you are awake, my little daughter, and I shall probably not return to the Hall for quite a fortnight. But as you are so happy and have found friends, why, it does not matter so much, does it?”
“But I shall miss you,” said Phyllis, little guessing how very, very much she was to regret the Squire’s absence.
“I will write to you, pet, almost every day if I can; and if there is anything you fancy from town, you have but to say the word.”
“I will write and tell you, Father. Are you prepared to give me quite big, big things if I want them?”
“I expect I am. You are my only child, and my pockets are pretty well lined.”