"And here comes Eleanor to call us," said Andrew. "Dear good Eleanor. She is not as bright as the rest, but I am sure you will like her."
Eleanor came forward, and shook hands with me cordially enough. She was pretty and fresh-colored, but I noticed in a moment that her cap was awry, and her fresh lawn apron already creased and tumbled. Nevertheless, I took a fancy to her in a moment.
"Do you know whether my mother is up?" I asked, after we had exchanged some commonplace remarks.
"I think she is. I heard her moving," she said, and then asked abruptly, "Don't you want to carry her some flowers? I would have gathered them, but I thought you would like to do it yourself. There are plenty of late violets and rosebuds in the garden."
I was pleased with the idea, and with the odd kind of consideration it showed. We collected quite a nosegay, which I carried to my mother's room. I had acted as her maid and attendant of late, though I am sure I but poorly supplied the loss of poor Grace, and I was surprised to find her up and dressed.
"Oh, maman, I ought not to have stayed so long," said I; "but the morning is so beautiful, and I longed so to breathe the fresh air—"
And then I stopped, and had much ado not to burst out crying again as I observed that my mother had put on a black dress and a long mourning veil after the fashion of widows in England. I checked myself, however, and put into her hand the flowers Eleanor had helped me to gather.
"Thank you, my love. They are very charming," said my mother, who loved flowers with a kind of passion. "But I fear you have been making too free with your cousin's garden."
"Oh, no, maman; Eleanor showed me where to gather them. It was her thought in the first place. See what beautiful rosebuds, for so late in the year. We have none such in Normandy. But I suppose our poor flower-garden is all trampled into the earth," I added, and then seeing that my mother's lips turned white, and that she grasped the back of the chair for support, I sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, dear maman, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt you."
"There is no fault to be pardoned, my child," said my mother, recovering herself as by a great effort, and kissing me; "but, Vevette, I must be selfish enough for the present to ask you not to speak of—"