He thought it over lazily after lunch, resting in the sleepy-hollow chair by the east window in the room that had been his ever since he graduated from the nursery. All about him were devices for comfort and adornment that spoke of his mother's hand. She knew the sort of thing he liked,—his handsome, unhappy mother. It was a shame to leave her so much alone; yet she never complained, but seemed always self-sufficient and independent.
And then Allan began to reflect on the singular fact that he was seldom quite at ease with his mother, although he admired her, and at one time had been very much under her influence. If he had ceased to care for his home, it was her fault for sending him away for so long. "Poor mother!" he thought. "We have all disappointed her; but she was never quite fair to any of us. She wanted us to go her way, and, being her children, we preferred our own."
The sound of Rosalind's voice floated in at the window. He looked out. She was crossing the lawn, after an interview with Katherine through the hedge.
"When are we to begin?" he called.
"Whenever you like," she answered.
He went down and joined her in the garden, thinking what a difference she made in the place. He had not supposed a girl of twelve could be so charming; but then, she was his brother's daughter, with something of her father about her, and he had felt a little boy's admiration for this older brother.
Rosalind told him it was almost like having father or Cousin Louis to talk to; and as they wandered about the garden Allan found himself feeling flattered at her evident pleasure in his society.
She brought out her treasured book to show him, and explained about the Forest; and Allan listened absently, noting the soft curve of her cheek and the length of the dark lashes, his memory going back to that one occasion when he had seen the gentle and lovely girl who was afterward his brother's wife.
"And now we must go to the magician's," said Rosalind.
Not many of the inhabitants of Friendship were abroad in the middle of a summer afternoon, and they had the street almost to themselves when they set out. The quiet, the bowed shutters, the deserted porches, suggested a universal nap. Allan looked up at the tall maples, whose branches met across the road just as they had done in his childhood. Truly, there was a charm about the old town, with its homelike dwellings and generous gardens, he acknowledged to himself. "I believe we are the only people awake," he remarked.