"You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," she said. "It may rain again. No, Geraldine dear, there is no use opening your umbrella till it does rain."
My feelings were divided between pride in my umbrella and some reluctance to have it wet! I took hold of mamma's arm again, while Haddie walked at her other side. It was not a very cheerful prospect before us—the gloomy dirty streets of Mexington were now muddy and sloppy as well—though on the whole I don't know but that they looked rather more cheerful by gaslight than in the day. It was chilly too, for the season was now very late autumn, if not winter. But little did we care—I don't think there could have been found anywhere two happier children than my brother and I that dull rainy evening as we trotted along beside our mother. There was the feeling of her to take care of us, of our cheerful home waiting for us, with a bright fire and the tea-table all spread. If I had not been a little tired—for we had walked a good way—in my heart I was just as ready to skip along on the tips of my toes as when we first came out.
"We may stop at Miss Fryer's, mayn't we, mamma?" said Haddie.
"Well, yes, I suppose I promised you something for tea," mamma replied.
"How much may we spend?" he asked. "Sixpence—do say sixpence, and then we can get enough for you to have tea with us too."
"Haddie," I said reproachfully, "as if we wouldn't give mamma something however little we had!"
"We'd offer it her of course, but you know she wouldn't take it," he replied. "So it's much better to have really enough for all."
His way of speaking made mamma laugh again.
"Then I suppose it must be sixpence," she said, "and here we are at Miss Fryer's. Shall we walk on, my little girl, I think you must be tired, and let Haddie invest in cakes and run after us?"