The afternoon was radiant: sky and air had been washed clean, as Mab said, by frequent showers, and there did not seem an atom of impurity, not even a cloudlet that was not white and shining, in the whole expanse of atmosphere. Lady William was grave, but had recovered her composure, and Mab was gay with an unusual freshness, ready to gambol about the path like the large loose-limbed puppy from the lodge who was fond of taking walks with visitors, and who came up and offered himself as guide and companion as soon as the two ladies had entered the gate. Mab was acquainted with the puppy’s family for several generations, and knew his mother upon intimate terms, so that there was no need of ceremony. He and she had gone up the avenue to the point at which the house becomes visible, rising high above the little lake and among the trees, when Lady William called her daughter back. ‘You have had enough of the puppy,’ she said; ‘now you must turn into a young lady, Mab.’
‘It is not half so amusing, mother; but, oh, look at the violets, how thick they are under the trees!’
‘About the ashen roots the violets blow,’ said Lady William.
‘I never knew any one have so many bits of poetry ready for all occasions,’ said Mab admiringly. ‘It’s a pity they’re only dog-violets, and not sweet at all; but they are pretty like that all the same.’
‘Why, I wonder, should one speak of dog-violets, and dog-roses, and dog-daisies?’ said Lady William. ‘I suppose it is in contempt of things that grow wild.’
‘A dog is the wisest thing that lives,’ said Mab; ‘there’s no contempt in such a name. Puppy! puppy! where are you going? I must run after him, mother, and keep him from frightening those ducks.’
‘There’s contempt, if you please! The famous Swinford wild fowl!’
‘Oh, I can’t bear them, the stupid things. Puppy! puppy! oh, don’t be a fool, they are not worth your while.’
‘Nor yours either, puppy mine. You will be as red as a peony next, and what will Mrs. Swinford say?’
‘I hate Mrs. Swinford,’ said Mab; but she walked soberly the rest of the way. Mrs. Swinford was in the same room and chair as she had occupied on the previous night: with flowers piled in the jardinières, on the tables, everywhere; a wood fire blazing very bright, but more bright than warm, and the mistress of the house arrayed, as always, in dark velvet, with a crimson tone in the lights, but without the lace which had softened at once her features and her age. Her hair, in which there was not a thread of white, was dressed high on her head; her back was, as usual, to the light.