'I don't know what I should do, not to speak of mamma,' I went on, 'if you got gloomy about things. We all depend on you so,' and for a moment or two I really felt as if I must begin to cry!
Then something crept round my neck, and I knew it was all right again. The something was Geordie's arm, and it gave me a little hug, not the most comfortable thing in the world when you are out walking, and it tilts up your hat, but of course I did not mind.
'Yes, Ida,' he said, 'it's very babyish and cowardly of me, and I'm very sorry. I won't be like that again, I promise you.'
Then I gave him a sort of a hug in return, and we hurried on a little, not to leave mamma with the children dragging on at each side of her, as they are apt to do when they are tired. We none of us spoke much the rest of the way home, but Geordie said one or two little things about how comfortable the Hut was getting to look and so on, which I understood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was at all in low spirits.
When people really try to do right, I think outside things often come to help them. That very evening we were cheered and amused by a letter which had arrived by the second post while we were all out—a quite unexpected letter.
It was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom we were very fond of. She was almost like a big sister, and her name was Theresa. She was generally called 'Taisy' for short. I have not spoken of her before; but, indeed, when I come to think of it I have not spoken of any of our relations, I have been so entirely taken up with the Hut. We had however none very near. Taisy was almost the nearest. She lived with her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so Taisy was really only second cousin to us children.
She was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. Many people like her would have been spoilt, for old Aunt Emmeline adored her and gave her nearly everything she could possibly want. But Taisy wasn't a bit spoilt.
She often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our big trouble was that we could not look forward to having her this year, at any rate. Papa had written to Lady Emmeline to tell her of what had happened; she was one of the few whom he felt he must write to about it, and it was partly because of Taisy's not coming—I mean our not being able to have her—that he did so.
And he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. She wished she could help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was what they call 'tied up,' somehow, and Taisy would have none of hers till she was twenty-one. Besides, papa was not the sort of man to take or expect help, while he was strong and active and could work for us himself, and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help would really have been no use—a large fortune was at stake.
Taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, and something about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before the summer was over.