'Don't let the children turn the house quite out of windows, darling,' said Mrs. Wendover, at the moment of parting.
'No, mother dear, we are all going to be goodness itself.'
'I know, dears, you always are. And I hope you will all enjoy yourselves.'
'We're sure to do that, mother,' answered Reginald, with a cheerfulness that seemed almost heartless.
The departing parent would not have liked them to be unhappy, but a few natural tears would have been a pleasing tribute. Not a tear was shed. Even the little Eva skipped joyously on the doorstep as the phaeton drove away. The idea of the picnic was all-absorbing.
The Colonel and his wife were to spend a week at Bournemouth. Ida would see them no more this year.
'You must come again next summer, Mrs. Wendover said heartily, as she kissed her daughter's friend.
'Of course she must,' cried Horry. 'She is coming every summer. She is one of the institutions of Kingthorpe. I only wonder how we ever managed to get on so long without her.'
All that evening was devoted to the packing of hampers, and to general skirmishing. The picnic was to be held on the highest hill-top between Kingthorpe and Winchester, one of those little Lebanons, fair and green, on which the yew-trees flourished like the cedars of the East, but with a sturdy British air that was all their own.
The birthday dawned with the soft pearly gray and tender opal tints which presage a fair noontide. Before six o'clock the children had all besieged Bessie's door, with noisy tappings and louder congratulations. At seven, they were all seated at breakfast, the table strewn with birthday gifts, mostly of that useless and semi-idiotic character peculiar to such tributes—ormolu inkstands, holding a thimbleful of ink—penholders warranted to break before they have been used three times—purses with impossible snaps—photograph frames and pomatum-pots.