“Well, I supposed it was a nephew, unless she has a son—a tall fair young man, who looks delicate, and walks as if his legs were not very strong.”
“Oh yes, I know,” Florence answered, as she signed to the fly she had engaged to come nearer to the donkey-cart, so that she might not waste a minute. “He is a friend; he is no relation. Good-bye, Mrs. Burnett; I am sorry you are going away. I suppose you are waiting for the fast train, as Mr. Burnett did not come by the last one?”
“Yes, it is due in twenty minutes. Good-bye; so sorry not to have been at home during your visit. Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, do you think your children would like to have the use of this cart while we are away? The donkey is so gentle and so good.”
“It is too kind of you to think of it,” Florence began, beaming; for she thought of how Catty and Monty would shout for joy at having a donkey-cart to potter about in. And in her secret soul, though she felt it would not do to betray it, she was nearly as much pleased as they would be: she often had an inward struggle for the dignity with which she felt her matronly position should be supported.
“It will be such a pleasure to lend it them. It’s a dear little donkey, so good and gentle. It doesn’t go well,” Mrs. Burnett added, in an apologetic tone; “but it’s a dear little donkey, and does everything else well.” And over this remark Florence pondered much as she drove away.
When she came in sight of the cottage she wondered if she had been absent more than half an hour, or at all. She had left it in the afternoon more than a week ago, and the children had stood out in the roadway dancing and waving their handkerchiefs till she could see them no longer. As she came back, they stood there dancing and waving their handkerchiefs again. They shouted for joy as she got out of the fly.
“Welcome, my darling, welcome,” cried Aunt Anne, who was behind them, by the gate. “These dear children and I have been watching more than an hour for you. Enter your house, my love. It is indeed a privilege to be here to receive you.”
“It is a privilege to come back to so warm a welcome,” Florence said when, having embraced her children and Aunt Anne, she was allowed to enter the cottage; “and how comfortable and nice it looks!” she exclaimed, as she stopped by the dining-room doorway. There was a wood fire blazing, and the tea set out, and the water in the silver kettle singing, and hot cakes in a covered dish in the fender. Flowers set off the table, and in the pots about the room were boughs of autumn leaves. It was all cosy and inviting, and wore a festival air—festival that Florence knew had been made for her. She turned and kissed the old lady gratefully. “Dear Aunt Anne,” she said, and that was thanks enough.
“I thought, my love, that you would like to partake of tea with your dear children on your return. Your later evening meal I have arranged to be a very slender one.”
“But you are too good, Aunt Anne.”