'It's all right, Martha,' it said joyfully. 'The dear children are coming. I think I'll just slip on my bonnet and run up to Mr. Parry's' (this Mr. Parry was the vicar), 'and see if he's got a—a clergy list—oh, dear me! what am I saying? I mean a railway-guide, and then if I mark down the best train I can write at once to Miss Eccles and to Mr. Fanshaw. It will save them all trouble, and of course I must choose a train which will arrive in good time at Frewern Bay, on account of the long drive, you see, Martha.'
'To be sure, miss, to be sure,' Martha agreed. 'But you'll have some luncheon first, miss. They'll be at theirs at the vicarage.'
'Very well, Martha,' said Miss Clotilda submissively. She felt far too excited to eat, but still she did not want to delay Martha's own dinner. The calling this mid-day repast 'luncheon' was a pious fiction, for, for many years past, even in the so-called 'old days,' it had been the real dinner. Mrs. Wynne had been too delicate to take a substantial meal late in the day, and now, alas! there were serious reasons why Miss Clotilda should be content with but one such. And with her present economical intention, I am afraid even her luncheon was not a luxurious meal. But the thought of the little visitors for whom they were made sweetened and cheered her self-sacrifices.
'I've been thinking, miss,' said Martha, as she waited upon her mistress, 'that if I was a little saving with the milk this week or two, we might get a pound or so of butter to sell at the market with the chickens next week. I've spoke to widow Jones about it, and she'll be pleased to sell whatever we like with hers.'
'A very good idea,' said Miss Clotilda approvingly. 'Of course, it's nonsense for me and you to use all the milk. For my part, I don't care about cream in my tea at all. I meant to have told you so. Nor do I care about butter—just now, in the hot weather too. You may save all the milk you can for churning, as far as I'm concerned, only don't stint yourself, Martha, mind.'
Martha murmured something like 'No fear of that.'
But all the same it was scanty milk and no butter that fell to the share of the old servant's tea. Miss Clotilda, too, was satisfied that she herself was practising the utmost economy, though more than once she remarked to Martha that the red cow's milk seemed nicer than ever. 'In my tea I should really not tell it from cream.'
And silly little Kathie all this time never thought and seldom spoke of her aunt except as 'that stupid old maid,' and thought herself, I rather suspect, very condescending for having made up her mind to spend the holidays at the White House.