Before he could reason in favor of a privilege which goes proverbially by favor, the young maid was gone upon the winding path, with the pitcher truly balanced on her well-tressed head. Then Pet sat down and watched her; and she turned round in the distance, and waved him a kiss at decorous interval.
Not more than three days after this, Mrs. Carnaby came into the drawing-room with a hasty step, and a web of wrinkles upon her generally smooth, white forehead.
“Eliza,” asked her sister, “what has put you out so? That chair is not very strong, and you are rather heavy. Do you call that gracefully sinking on a seat, as we used to learn the way to do at school?”
“No, I do not call it anything of the kind. And if I am heavy, I only keep my heart in countenance, Philippa. You know not the anxieties of a mother.”
“I am thankful to say that I do not. I have plenty of larger cares to attend to, as well as the anxieties of an aunt and sister. But what is this new maternal care?”
“Poor Pet's illness—his serious illness. I am surprised that you have not noticed it, Philippa; it seems so unkind of you.”
“There can not be anything much amiss with him. I never saw any one eat a better breakfast. What makes you fancy that the boy must be unwell?”
“It is no fancy. He must be very ill. Poor dear! I can not bear to think of it. He has done no mischief for quite three days.”
“Then he must indeed be at the point of death. Oh, if we could only keep him always so, Eliza!”
“My dear sister, you will never understand him. He must have his little playful ways. Would you like him to be a milksop?”