“Oh, Betty,” exclaimed the former, “what an afternoon! Just fancy you having met him, and we having heard it. The only pity is that neither of us had the pleasure of telling the other. But how well you managed to smooth down papa!”
“Eira, dear,” said Frances, “do be a little more careful how you speak. I don’t like the idea of managing or planning, though I was glad that Betty had a definite message, for of course, as the Littlewoods are coming, it would be most disagreeable, and a great loss to us all probably, if we were not on friendly terms with them.”
“Who told you?” asked Betty.
“The old Webbs, of course,” said Eira. “But, Betty, there’s some other news! Only Francie must tell you herself. You’ll scarcely be able to believe it.”
Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.
“What is it? What can it be?” she ejaculated.
For all reply Frances held out a large thin-looking envelope, from which she proceeded to extract, with great care and deliberation, a sheet or two of what is called “foreign” writing paper.
“This is,” she said at last, “a letter from Mrs Ramsay. Look, Betty,” and here she displayed a smaller slip of paper which told its own tale. “She has done it so thoughtfully,” Frances continued; “it is an English bank-note, you see. I wonder how she managed to get it out there in New Zealand? A bank-note for ten pounds, so there will be no trouble about cashing it, or anything of that sort! And, Betty, it is a Christmas present to be divided between us three! Isn’t it—oh! isn’t it good of her?”
Betty, as yet, had not gotten beyond a gasp. The full realisation of this fairy gift of fortune was still to come to her.
“You must read the letter,” went on Frances. “She doesn’t want us to tell papa and mamma; she is so terribly afraid of it vexing them. And, of course, it isn’t as if we were children now, I especially.”