“And he has three sisters, cousin Hester,” said Flora, “such pretty, good, nice girls, and they all live at the hall; and we have always been such friends, especially Mary and I, and they will be such pleasant company. Oh! if you were only at Cottiswoode, I think I should have nothing more to wish for; I can see mamma almost every day, and Annie is almost old enough to take my place, and when Gus and the rest of the boys come home for the holidays, of course they will be as much at the hall as they are at Ennerdale, and he is as fond of them all as I am, and if you were at home, cousin Hester, I think I should be almost too happy.”
The only thing I could do was to draw my hand caressingly over this happy, pretty head before me. Flora could go on in her pleasant talk without any help from me.
“So that will be one thing to hope for,” said Flora; “you might come and see me, cousin Hester. Mamma is so busy getting everything, that she could not come down with me to-day; such quantities of things, I cannot think what I shall do with them, and you know I never had a great many dresses before; just look what a child I am,” cried Flora, springing up with a burst of laughter at herself and opening a dainty little basket on the table, to bring out sundry bits of bright rich glistening silk. “I brought them to show them to you, cousin; I know you don’t care for such things, but—but—you were always so kind to me.”
I was not so philosophical as Flora supposed. I think myself that however universal the feminine love of dress may be, it is never so perfectly developed as in a happy young wife who has her babies to adorn and decorate as well as herself. Though I was far from happy, I felt the germ of this within me, and was not at all indifferent to Flora’s pretty specimens. We were soon deep in a discussion of laces and satins, and modes, matters in which Flora was so delighted to have my advice, and I so willing to give it; the forenoon went on very pleasantly while we were thus occupied. I was pleased and drawn out of myself, and I had always been very fond of Flora; the sight of her happiness was quite a delight to me.
When baby had taken his refreshment and been laid to sleep in his cradle—he was not much more than a month old, and slept a great deal, as I suppose healthy, vigorous children generally do—Flora went up to my room with me, for I wanted to give her some little present, such as I had; Flora was somewhat amused at the bare little room, the scanty white dimity hangings, and clean poverty of everything, and at baby’s little bath, and the pretty basket which at present held his night things only. “Do you do everything for him yourself?” she asked, wonderingly. “Do you know, cousin Hester, I should think that was so very pleasant, and to carry him about out of doors, as you were doing; oh, I should so like to be your nursemaid, cousin!”
“Well, Flora?” I said, inquiringly, for she had stopped with hesitation, as if she wanted to ask something of me.
“Perhaps you would not like it, dear,” said Flora, in her caressing way; “but I should not be at all hurt if you said so. Oh, I should like so much to come here for a few days. Cousin Hester, I could sleep on the sofa, I could help Alice, I always was handy, and I know you would let me carry baby sometimes when you went out. Will you write to mamma now, and ask her to let me come? Oh, cousin Hester, do!”
“But, Flora, your mamma does not approve of me,” said I, with an involuntary blush.
Her countenance fell a little. “Indeed I did not say so, cousin Hester,” she explained, though with an embarrassment which made it very evident to me that I was right. “She thought it wrong of you to go away, but it was different after Mr. Southcote told her, and she is so very sorry for you, dear cousin, and says she is sure you are not happy. Oh, indeed it was not at all hard to persuade her to let me come to-day. I am very bold to beg so for an invitation, but I do so wish to come, cousin; you will write?”
“It would do me good to have you with me, Flora,” I said, sadly; “but I think I have grown very foolish and nervous. I am almost afraid to write to your mamma. I fancy she cannot see anything to excuse me. Happy people are sometimes not the best judges, Flora, and she has never been very wretched, I am sure. And then, what would he say? Nobody can think well of me in Cambridgeshire; and he would not like to have his young bride staying with me. I am sure he would not, Flora.”