many a longing, lingering look towards the unexplored regions of the house, which Mr. Huyton observing, told them that they should come again some other day, and they would have a good game at hide-and-seek all over the house; a promise which they resolved not to allow him to forget.
The most unqualified admiration was excited by the beautiful horses and carriage which stood at the door, Sybil declaring they were just what he ought to have, and Gwyneth whispering to Maurice that the afternoon’s adventure was quite like a fairy tale.
“Are you going to drive, Mr. Huyton?” asked Sybil, as he was preparing to hand Hilary in.
“Not if you can make room for me inside,” was his answer; “do you think you two little girls could sit by your sister without squeezing her too much?”
“Easily, easily,” cried Sybil, springing up and down on the elastic cushions of the carriage. “Oh, Hilary, is it not delicious? if we had but such a carriage as this for every day!”
Maurice preferred going on the box, when it came to the point, so that after all there was plenty of room; and Sybil and Gwyneth were able to change sides in the carriage every five minutes, a process which any one less patiently indulgent than Hilary would soon have stopped.
Mr. Huyton, however, sitting opposite to her, kept her in such pleasant conversation on really interesting subjects, that she had not much time to be worried by any restlessness of her sisters; and the half-hour’s drive passed only too rapidly. He was as enthusiastic an admirer of scenery as she herself, and with an eye and taste cultivated by familiarity with the best examples; yet he did not despise or look down contemptuously on English scenery, or an English climate, because the one could not show the Alps, nor the other boast of the bright suns of Italy or Greece. The small specimen that he had seen was enough to give him most favorable impressions; and he was equally prepared to like the women of his country. His expectations were high, but he had not as yet met with a disappointment.
“I am so glad of that,” replied Hilary, with a simplicity and candor which told how little she suspected that she was the first English lady he had conversed with since his return from abroad. The idea of his intending a compliment to her was as far as possible from her mind.
Mr. Duncan was naturally a good deal surprised when he perceived the style in which his children had returned home; but nothing could be more cordial and grateful than his thanks and his invitation to their new acquaintance to walk in and share their tea. Sybil and Gwyneth, too, seconded the invitation with all their might; but Hilary was engrossed with little Nest, and either did not or would not attend; he was not sure which was the case.
“I must say good evening,” said he, approaching the end of the room, where she was sitting on the end of the sofa, with her arms around the little one. “Is this another of your sisters, Miss Duncan? I never saw more lovely children; and yet how unlike they are to you!”