“How do you mean, father dear?” said Mary, softly, and she came closer to him and slid her hand into his arm. “What makes you speak that way to-day?”
“I don’t exactly know, my dear,” he replied. “Possibly the sight of those strangers in church set me considering things. I should like you girls to have a few more—well, advantages I suppose they are in a sense, after all—I should like to see Lilias and you as nicely dressed as that pretty girl this morning, eh, Mary?”
“Dear father?” said Mary, affectionately. “But we’re very happy, papa. I am, at least, and Lilias tries to be anyway. But I dare say it’s harder for her than for me—she might get so very much admiration, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
Mr Western smiled—there were people in the world, he thought to himself, who would see something to admire in the eager face beside him too; but he said nothing, and just then the dinner-bell rang, and a hurry of approaching footsteps told that to some at least of the Rectory party it was not an unwelcome sound. Mary fled up-stairs, her father followed the hungry flock into the dining-room. And the Sunday meal that day was considerably enlivened by discussions about the mysterious strangers. Who were they?—whence had they come, and wherefore?—and, “Will they come again next Sunday?” said little Frances, a question which her eldest sister very summarily answered in the negative.
“They have given you all something to talk about, children, anyway,” said Mrs Western.
“Yes,” said Basil, who, on the strength of having left school three months ago, considered himself a man of the world, “it’s ridiculous how people get excited about nothing at all, when they live such shut-up lives. I bet you the whole neighbourhood’s full of it. All the old women will be discussing these unfortunate people over their tea-tables at this very moment.”
“Not over their tea, Basil,” said little Brooke. “They don’t have tea till four o’clock.”