“Good morning, Nily!” said Otto, approaching Eline.
“Good morning, Otto!” answered Eline, and she offered him her hand, and they whispered something together. She felt herself very happy in the new charm which a busy family life had opened up to her. To her, who as a child had had no one but her sister for a playmate, and whose early girlhood was half dreamed away in the depressing surroundings of her aged aunt’s home, it was a newly-revealed happiness to be in the midst of such a joyous stir, and she began to view life from another standpoint than she had done while she was yet under the glamour of soirées and balls at the Hague. Every one was cheerful and pleasant, even Frédérique; the children she allowed to clamber on to her shoulder at their sweet will, freely letting them caress and fondle her with their greasy little fingers, without the least fear for her dress or her head-gear. She was in love with Tina, the dainty little miss, whom Eline’s charm of manner irresistibly attracted, as it had once attracted Cateau van der Stoor, and at table Eline’s seat was always between Otto and Tina. Old Madame van Erlevoort sat between her two youngest grandchildren, Edmée and Kitty Howard, the only child of her English son-in-law, and when she glanced along the table beaming with youthful gaiety, it seemed to her as though there could be no one in the wide world happier than she, with her gray hair and her youthful heart.
After breakfast Théodore proposed a trip to the so-called “big tree,” for he declared that of the many big trees of Gelderland the one at the Horze was the biggest. Howard, Etienne, and Cor were to accompany him; Eline and Otto with the children joined [[191]]them; even Edmée and Kitty, under the care of the three girls, stormed the covered cart that was ready to convey them.
In the breakfast-room an Atlantic gale seemed to have raged. The table was a chaos of plates and glasses, the floor was bestrewn with serviettes, in the midst of which lay Tina’s hat, a spade of Nico’s, and a ball of Edmée’s.
“Isn’t it rather too noisy for you, mamma?” asked Truus, taking the hand of Madame van Erlevoort—who was still seated at the disordered breakfast-table—in hers. “Really the children make such a fearful din, that it seems quite a relief when they are gone.”
“Come,” said the old lady, “you ought to be ashamed to talk like that.”
“My four youngsters often nearly drive me to despair too,” remarked Mathilde; “but with the exception of Cor, who is gradually growing a little more staid, yours seem to take the palm for noisy young scapegraces.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about me, Truus,” said the old lady. “All through the winter I long for the summer to come, when I can go to the Horze, and it does me good to be with you all. And I think it very nice of you that you have asked Eline.”
“Next year, when they are married, I have already asked them to come to London during the season,” remarked Cathérine. “I like her very much.”
Young Madame van Erlevoort looked rather thoughtful as she folded up a serviette.