They had been but a few days in their new abode. Nettie, seated near one of the windows, was looking out over the sea; Mrs. Hartley was reading the ‘Times;’ Jet, apparently under the impression there was a fire in the grate, monopolized the hearthrug; and Grace was lying on a sofa, wondering when she should be strong enough to bathe, and walk, and climb to the top of one particular headland she could not lift her eyes without seeing.
“I think I should get well at once if I could only lie for a few hours amongst the heather, watching the bees as they hum in and out amongst the thyme,” she said at last.
“We will get some of the fishermen to carry you up to the top of the highest hill we can find, in a creel,” suggested Mrs. Brady.
“I wish we could hear of a quiet pony she could ride,” said Mrs. Hartley, in whose eyes the excursion proposed by Nettie did not find favour.
“I don’t think a quiet pony was an animal Gracie ever much appreciated,” retorted Mrs. Brady.
“I am very certain it will be a considerable time before she is strong enough to manage an unquiet one,” answered Mrs. Hartley.
“You have never told me,” said Miss Moffat, turning towards the last speaker, “how you heard I was ill.”
“I heard you were ill,” said Mrs. Hartley, taking off her eye-glasses and looking over the ‘Times’ at her questioner, “from John Riley. He said if I did not soon come over to Maryville I should hear shortly you were dead. I should have mentioned that fact before, but thought you were probably getting as much tired of hearing Mr. Riley’s name mentioned as I was myself.”
“I never intend to speak of John again,” remarked Nettie. “I thought, Mrs. Hartley, you were his friend; but I am sorry to find I was mistaken.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Hartley calmly, “I hope I am Mr. Riley’s friend, but still I can imagine many things more interesting and amusing than to hear his virtues recited every hour in the twenty-four.”