“It is with me you ought to be,” said Rowland, with a sigh. “I have taken a house down the Clyde, which you may have seen if you have ever been down that way. You see it from the water as you come across. It is called Rosmore——”
“Rosmore!” they both said with bated breath.
“You know the place? It is a place I’ve always wanted since I was a lad like Archie. I used to stand on the deck and glance at it, but never said a word to anybody. That’s where I am going to live.”
“For a little while—for the salt water?” said they.
“For altogether; for as many years, I hope, as I live.”
“Oh!” they said again together, looking at each other. Rosmore was far more splendid than anything they had imagined. They had been with their aunt down to a cottage on the peninsula for the benefit of what Mrs. Brown picturesquely called “the salt water,” i.e., the sea-bathing: so they knew something of what it was. It was very grand, but perhaps a little oppressive to imaginations accustomed only to the cottage. Their eyes, looking at each other, had a question in them. They were overawed, but a little frightened too.
“I suppose—there will be a carriage, or a gig, or something. It is a long, long way up from the pier.”
“There will, I hope, be carriages enough for anything that is required, and horses to ride, and most things that may be found necessary. Archie, I hope,” said the father, unconsciously replying to Marion, “can ride?”
At this the boy burst into a great laugh. “I do not know, for I never did try,” he half sang, half said, with a big voice, inclining to be bass, but uncertain yet. His face grew red and his eyes shone. He communicated his pleasure to his sister by a look, but this time she did not respond.
“And I——” she said, with a contraction of her soft girlish forehead, “will have to bide at home.”