I do like Dorothea.
Mums smiled.
'We must see what father says,' she answered. 'Of course there's the railway fare.'
'But you couldn't go alone, mums,' I reminded her; 'and you know I'm only half, still. Father would never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she'd cost full fare.'
'Oh, you old-fashioned child!' said Cousin Dorothea, laughing. 'Dear, you must take him.'
I felt sure mums would, after that.
'I know I could help you about the rooms and everything better than anybody,' I said.
And I knew I could.
I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper person to take his place, as he couldn't possibly go. So it was settled, and one fine morning off we set.
It was really a fine morning,—I don't mean it only as an expression. It was really a lovely morning. Let me see, it must have been May by then. I'll look it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was a little nice wind too. Mums and I felt like two children out of school, or two captives out of prison, when we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway carriage all alone, flying along through the bright green fields with the trees in their new spring dresses and the sky as blue as blue,—all so jolly, you know, after the long winter in our London square and all the troubles we'd had.