“You can’t spoil her,” I retorted, quietly.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Liston, “send a message from me to your dark-haired pale-face that I shall begin a quilt for her next week.”
“I hope she will come to receive it,” said Aunt Temple. “Tell her that, Muxbee, with my love, and add that I hope we shall be good friends when we meet. Though I doubt it, for I can’t bear Highlanders—they’re so dreadfully enthusiastic.”
“How much of that message am I to send?” I asked.
“As much as you please. I can trust to your discretion.”
That evening I retired to my snug little attic-room earlier than usual, and, spreading out a large sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap paper before me, began a letter to my old chum on the banks of lake Wichikagan. I had much to relate, for much had happened since I had sent off the brief note by Salamander, and I found it difficult to check my pen when once it had got into the flow of description and the rush of reminiscence and the gush of reiterative affection. I had covered the whole of the first sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap, and got well into the second sheet—which I had selected unruled, that I might write still more narrowly—when I heard a gentle tap at the door.
I knew the tap well—sprang up and opened the door. Eve stood there, looking as modest and beautiful and elegant as ever—which is saying a good deal, for, in deference to Mrs Liston’s prejudices, she had exchanged her old graceful tunic reaching to a little below the knee, and her pretty bead-wrought leggings, and other picturesque accompaniments of Indian life, for the long dress of civilisation. However, I consoled myself with the fact that nothing could spoil her, and recalled with satisfaction the words (I don’t quite remember them), which refer to a rose smelling equally sweet under any other name.
“Prayers,” said Eve.
Lest any one should feel perplexed by the brevity of her announcement, I may mention that dear old Mrs Liston’s habit was to recognise her “Best Benefactor” night and morning by having worship in the household, and invariably conducted it herself in her soft, slightly tremulous, but still musical voice.
As we descended the stairs, Eve said,—“You must sit beside me to-night, Geo’ge. When you sit opposite you gaze too much and make me uncomfortable.”