"Did you not tell me, when we were last there, that you would never be afraid of him again, after seeing him play so good-humoredly with William Temple?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Kitty; and now I remember that, I think I will go, if you will ask Mrs. Temple, when we get there, to let me play with William in the nursery."
Harriet was soon ready, and as the day was bright and the road good, we had a very pleasant drive of a mile and a half to Mr. Dickinson's. Before I tell you of our visit, however, you would perhaps like to hear something of Mr. Dickinson himself, of Mrs. Temple, and of little William.
CHAPTER VIII.
VISIT TO FLOWERHILL.
Mr. Dickinson was an elderly gentleman, who had had his own way pretty much all his life. In the first place, when he was a child, having had no brothers or sisters, and being of course a great pet with his father—his mother died when he was too young to remember her—he was seldom contradicted or opposed in any thing. When he was about fifteen his father brought home another mother for him, but as he was then at school, he was little under her control. In about a year she too died, leaving a little girl who was his half-sister. As he loved this sister very much, and was not a selfish boy, he would, I doubt not, sometimes have given up his will to her, but she was taken away by an aunt, who took care of her, and with whom she always lived till she married. This sister is Mrs. Temple, and a very pleasant woman she is, and dearly does she love her brother William, as she showed by naming her first son after him. When Mr. Dickinson's father died, he was still a very young man. As he was rich, had nothing to keep him at home, and was desirous of seeing other countries, he went to England, and was for several years travelling in Great Britain and on the continent of Europe. He could tell very pleasant stories of what he had seen and heard abroad, but he always ended by saying he had never seen any place which he liked half so well as Flowerhill. This was the name he had given to his home.
And well might he like it, for it was indeed a beautiful place. The house was built on the side of a hill. It had no up-stairs, being only one story high, yet it was so large that a dozen children might have played in one part of it without disturbing Mr. Dickinson in the other. Then it was shaded by such beautiful large old elm-trees. And the garden—there was not such another garden in the country, for Mr. Dickinson had employed a very skilful English gardener, who had laid it out with great taste, and he was constantly buying for it choice and beautiful flowers. People must have something to pet. Now Mr. Dickinson being a single man, with no children to pet, had learned to make pets of his flowers. You will probably think, from all I have said, that Mr. Dickinson, with no one ever to oppose him, and plenty of money to do what he liked with, must have been a very happy man. When you are a little older you will learn that those are not the happiest people who always have their own way. There were very few people who seemed more fretful and discontented than this Mr. Dickinson. Children, like Harriet, called him cross, and ran away from him, while older people often thought him proud and ill-tempered, and were rather distant with him. Yet those who knew him well, liked him much, for he was a very upright and honest and kind-hearted man. You will be a little surprised perhaps at my calling him kind-hearted, but could you have heard from some poor old people near him, how often he sent them food and fuel in the winter season when they could not go out to work, and must have been both cold and hungry but for him, you would not think it strange. To be sure, they said, he would scold a little when he came to see them, if it was only because they did not make better fires or boil their soup more; but they did not mind this, for they had found out that the more he scolded, the more he gave. Then, though Mr. Dickinson was never quite satisfied with children, who either talked so loud that they made his head ache, or so low that he could not hear them, and if they walked out with him were certain to tread either on his feet or his flowers, he was always very careful that they should not get hurt when near him, and would often spend his money and give himself some trouble to gratify their wishes, if they were not unreasonable. Mrs. Temple and her two children, William, who was about six years old, and Flora, who was nearly four years younger, had been spending the summer with Mr. Dickinson; and William, who was a fine, spirited boy, was a great deal with his uncle, and took more liberties with him than I believe anybody—boy or man—had ever done before.
In driving to Mr. Dickinson's from my house, the road wound around his garden, and passed, on the other side, the house which had been built for his gardener. This was a very pretty cottage, with another garden at the back of it, which, though much smaller than Mr. Dickinson's, and very simply laid out, looked scarcely less pleasing,—with its raspberry and strawberry vines—its currant and gooseberry bushes—its roses and pinks, and its little arbor of grapes, over the entrance to which hung the fragrant honeysuckle and bright red woodbine. The house was shut up, but looked as if it might have quite room enough for Mr. Graham's family. Harriet was sure it was just the thing, and even managed, in the minute we were passing, to get a peep into the poultry-yard, and to ascertain that there was good accommodation for all Jessie's ducks and chickens.
We found Mr. Dickinson at home. He was reading to his sister, Mrs. Temple, as she sat at work in a room with sashed doors opening into the garden. One of these doors was open, and William Temple soon appeared at it, calling out, "Uncle, do come here and tell me what this beautiful flower is named?"