“Oh,” she said. “I’d forgotten Brownie. I s’pose it wouldn’t do. But isn’t it a glorious elephant, Daddy?”
“It is, indeed,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “I think it’s too glorious to leave, girlie. Fact is, I had an inkling the circus was to be here, so I told Brownie not to expect us until she saw us. She put a basket in the buggy, with your tooth-brush, I think.”
The face of his small daughter was sufficient reward.
“Daddy!” she said. “Oh, but you are the MOST Daddy!” Words failed her at that point.
Norah said that it was a most wonderful “spree.” They had dinner at the hotel, where the waiter called her “Miss Linton,” and in all ways behaved precisely as if she were grown up, and after dinner she and her father sat on the balcony while Mr. Linton smoked and Norah watched the population arriving to attend the circus. They came from all quarters—comfortable old farm wagons, containing whole families; a few smart buggies; but the majority came on horseback, old as well as young. The girls rode in their dresses, or else had slipped on habit skirts over their gayer attire, with great indifference as to whether it happened to be crushed, and they had huge hats, trimmed with all the colours of the rainbow. Norah did not know much about dress, but it seemed to her theirs was queer. But one and all looked so happy and excited that dress was the last thing that mattered.
It seemed to Norah a long while before Mr. Linton shook the ashes from his pipe deliberately and pulled out his watch. She was inwardly dancing with impatience.
“Half-past seven,” remarked her father, shutting up his watch with a click. “Well, I suppose we’d better go, Norah. All ready, dear?”
“Yes, Daddy. Must I wear gloves?”
“Why, not that I know of,” said her father, looking puzzled. “Hardly necessary, I think. I don’t wear ’em. Do you want to?”
“Goodness—no!” said his daughter hastily.