"That would be a delightful addition to the party," remarked Mr. Dinsmore; "but aunt is now in her eightieth year, and I fear will think herself much too old for so long a journey."
"Ah, yes, papa, but she is more active than most women of seventy and can go nearly all the way by water;—down the Ohio and the Mississippi and along the Gulf. At all events I shall do my best to persuade her."
"And you are so great a favorite that your eloquence will not be wasted,
I think," said Mr. Travilla.
He was right; the old lady could not resist the urgent entreaties of her dearly loved grand-niece, joined to the pleasant prospect of spending some months with her and the other relatives and friends, each of whom held a place in her warm, loving heart.
An answering letter was sent from Lansdale by return of mail, promising that their party would follow the other to Viamede at an early day.
May too was enchanted with the thought of a winter in that lovely spot, and the society of her two sisters, and Elsie, who was almost as near.
But to return. As soon as the children learned that the winter was really to be spent at Viamede, and that they would set off in a few days, the whole flock—leaving their elders to settle the dry details—hastened in quest of "mammy."
They found her in the nursery, seated before a crackling wood fire, with little Herbert in her arms.
Quickly their news was told, and gathering round her, they plied her with questions about her old Louisiana home.
"Well, chillins," she said, her old eyes growing bright with joy at the thought of soon seeing it again—for of course she would be included in the party—"it's jes lubly as lubly kin be! de grand ole house, an' de lawn, an' de shrubbery, an' de gardens, an' fields, an' orchards, an' eberyting:—yes, it am de lubliest place dis chile eber see."