“Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues ’tis the nearest kin to heaven.”
—Decker.
When alone with Annis that evening Mildred said to her, “I had a talk with Uncle Dinsmore to-day. You know we are all engaged to dine at Roselands to-morrow, and he wants us—that is, my husband, you, and me—to go prepared to stay at least a week.”
“O Milly, I don’t want to!” cried Annis. “Do you think I must? I wish we didn’t have to go at all.”
“It is pleasanter here, especially so to you, I suppose, but consider, dear, how very kind Uncle Dinsmore has always been to us, and how rude and ungrateful it would seem to decline his invitation.”
“I’m willing to go for to-morrow, but what is to be done about my lessons if I stay a whole week?”
“I spoke of that, and uncle said you should be brought over every day for the lesson hours and taken back again. Won’t that do, little lady?” Mildred asked, with playfully affectionate look and tone.
“Yes,” Annis said, her face brightening a little. “I don’t want to be, or to seem ungrateful to anybody, and I think I can stand it in that way for a week. And I’ll try to like the cousins there, though I’m sure they’re not half so nice as these here.”
“No,” assented Mildred, “but you might travel the world over without finding another such little girl as Elsie.”