“I know I was,” said the boy. “But it’s since coming over here and feeling the old jolly way. It’s so horrid not to see more of each other. I’d rather have you girls than any one when I’m at home. And Bernard’s older and you don’t know him. He’ll make you seem quite grown-up, and—”
“Maddie, perhaps—not me,” Ermine interrupted. “Never mind, Phil. You and I will keep each other company.”
“But I’ve scarcely seen you these holidays,” said Philip. “Granny, can’t they come over to us?” Madelene shook her head.
“Not just now,” she said sadly. “We really have a good deal to do. One or other of us has to walk or ride with papa every afternoon—mamma fidgets so if she thinks he doesn’t go out—and then one of us must be within hail in case she was worse. And then there’s Ella—”
There was Ella in fact. For as she said the words, a little shrill voice came sounding over the lawn.
“Maddie, Ermie, I’m here. And oh there’s big Phil. Take me a ride, Phil, on you’s shoulders, do, do.”
“Horrid little minx—” the boy was beginning to say, though in a low voice, but the words died on his lips. The little figure looked so bright and innocent as it flew towards them like a lapwing, heedless of Harvey and her remonstrances in the background, sure, with the irresistible confidence of childhood, of its welcome.
“Good morning, godmother,” she said, holding up her sweet little face for a kiss. “I’se got a bad cold,” and she tried to cough, “but Harvey said it would do me good to come out a little in the sun. And I’m going to see mamma when I go in, to let her see my cold isn’t worse. Oh, big Phil, do take me a ride on your shoulders.”
She clasped her hands entreatingly. Everything she did was full of pretty childish grace, when, that is to say, Ella chose to be in good temper.
“Hoist her up,” said Philip, and between them the two elder sisters managed to settle the child on his shoulders.