“How nice! She looks like a darling girl; she’s quite as sweet looking as she is pretty,” said Mrs. Garden, as though Mary were not there. “But, Win, Mrs. Garden? Aren’t you half-brother-in-law to me? Why not Lynette?”
“Yes,” said embarrassed Win. “That’s so!”
By this time they had come up the path and entered the house. At the door stood Anne, tears streaming down her face.
Mrs. Garden flew to her. “You dear creature!” she cried. “How glad I am to find you waiting for me, exactly where I said good-bye to you twelve years ago! And the house looks just the same! How strange, when one has been living so eagerly as I have, to come back and find a place looking as though a day had hardly gone by since one left it! But the children spoil that effect! Dear me, Anne, why have they grown to be almost young women? It’s dismaying. Where is the baby, Florimel? The one I named, and who has the only pretty name among them, in consequence? She could not walk when I left her; can’t she walk now, and come to welcome me?”
“Mel! Florimel, come!” called Jane up the stairs, as Florimel emerged, as pale as her sisters, from the folds of a portière.
“Oh, you charming gypsy!” cried her mother, taking her into her arms. “You had this same raven hair when we first met, and you were an hour old. You are nearly as tall as Mary, and you are both as tall as if I were decrepit! Isn’t it horrible? And at home in England I’ve been singing under my maiden name, and quite felt, and was treated, like a young Miss Lynette Devon! Never mind, my sweethearts, I’ve come back to be an old woman, and to let you take care of me.”
“You’ll never be an old woman, and we’ll take care of you so that you’ll feel like a whole orphan asylum!” cried Florimel, characteristically able to express what Mary and Jane felt too deeply to utter.
“You dear funny child! Is there tea, Anne? I’m half dead from fatigue. And send a maid out to fetch my portmanteau, will you? My luggage will be here to-morrow, but I want to go right to my room, and get into a loose gown I’ve kept with me, just as soon as I’ve had tea,” said Mrs. Garden.
“Win has brought your bag in, mother: I slipped out to see,” said Mary. “He’s taken it to your room. Abbie is bringing you tea and a cracker and some crisp lettuce out of the garden.”
“Is that fine garden as good as ever? A cracker, my American daughter? We say biscuit at home. But what a dear little caretaking creature you are! I did not like your name; I was awfully vexed that the doctor insisted on calling you after one of the Gardens—his aunt, wasn’t it? I was going to name you Elaine; then we both should have been called out of the Idyls of the King, you know. But it turned out quite right; you’re a genuine English Mary, sweet, old-fashioned kind. And my pretty Jane—do you know that lovely old tenor song? Jane would have been Gwendoline if I’d had my way, but she got called after her grandmother. I had my way with Florimel, and none other! However, Jane is so brilliant and clever looking that Jane is rather nice for her; the plain name emphasizes her. Ah, thank you—Abbie, did you say, Mary? Thank you, Abbie. I’m half dead, and the tea smells perfect.” Mrs. Garden accepted the cup which Mary poured for her, and the lettuce that Jane eagerly served her, also the “biscuit” that Florimel passed. The three girls hovered around her, silent but alert, their pallor now giving way to a flooding colour which enhanced the beauty of their sparkling eyes.