“We won’t stay long, Connie,” she said, as we drew near the Yew Trees. “Very likely they are still busy, though they don’t mind us. I have been thinking we might ask Evey and her sister to spend an afternoon with you—to-morrow perhaps, or the day after.”
“Yes,” I said. “I should like that. If their mother can spare them, and if all their time isn’t settled out for lessons, and sewing, and taking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls in story-books. I’m afraid they’re a little that way, mamma—very, very regular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular. I’ll tell you what I’m sure she’s like, mamma. Very tall, much taller than you,”—and mamma is not little—“and black hair, quite straightly done, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking.”
Mamma began to laugh.
“Hush, Connie,” she said, “you mustn’t upset my gravity. Once I begin laughing,”—poor mamma, it wasn’t very often she was really merry, though she tried to seem so for other people’s sake—“I can’t leave off.”
We were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubs hid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds of ringing laughter—the most ringing, happy, pretty laughter I ever heard—reached our ears; and then voices.
“Joss, Evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. No, no, Lancey—” and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. A lady, a rather little lady, with dark hair—nice, wavy dark-brown hair, like what Evey’s would have been if it hadn’t been so short—and the brightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was running at full speed across the little lawn before the door, with Lancey, the biggest boy of all, you know, after her. She was waving something white, a roll of paper, above her head, which Lancey was evidently determined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction it seemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young Whytes—the three sailor-suits, two girls, Evey and a fair-haired one, and two or three more boys. Such a lot they looked! All rushing about, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices. Suddenly somebody—Evey, I think—caught sight of us. There came an instant hush.
“Oh dear,” were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up to us. “I am so ashamed. You must think me out of my mind, Mrs Percy—it is Mrs Percy?” with a quick bright glance of questioning. “How good of you to come! We have been hoping you would. And this is Connie? I am so pleased to see you, dear.”
How charming she was. Not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet and irresistible—prettier than Evey and not as grave, but yet quite like enough to be her mother.
“You must think me a terrible tomboy,” she said, laughing again, and blushing a very little. “But we are in such spirits. It’s so long since we’ve been all together like this, for the big boys only came from school last week, and—”