When this magical visit was to be paid seemed somewhat indefinite. That Aunt Jane was strongly opposed to what she called ‘gadding about,’ may be gathered from the fact that during the six-and-twenty years of her married life she had spent only two days out of her own home. But Madeline had been content to hope and wait on—and dream over the many things she would do when at length the happy day did come. Just before Easter, however, she went half wild with ecstasy—for Uncle Luke in the exuberance of his gratitude to her for not laughing at him when his curiosity induced him to cut open a cheap concertina, ‘to see where the music came from,’ promised to take her immediately on to the barge and show her himself the wonderful sights of the great City.
It was a great blow to Madeline to learn that her uncles had departed to the magical place without her, but by the time she had finished her breakfast the sadness caused by the disappointment had worn away. She bestowed another impulsive kiss on Aunt Jane’s brown cheek, and taking her books under her arm, trotted off gleefully through the rain towards the great red-brick public school where most of her days were spent.
She was wonderfully light-hearted all day, and when evening came she firmly refused Polly Lowther’s invitation to take another dancing lesson, and trotted home to keep Aunt Jane company. She found the kitchen neat and clean as usual, with plates sparkling on the dresser, dishes smiling from the walls, and Mrs. Peartree sitting in their midst with a skein of worsted round her neck, and her busy fingers darning Uncle Mark’s guernsey. When Madeline came she laid her work aside and got the tea. The two sat down together.
‘Madlin, what in the world be you a-laughing at?’ asked Aunt Jane presently, astonished at the continual outbursts and half-smothered laughter of the child.
But for the life of her Madeline would not tell—she only knew that she felt within her a strange hysterical sort of joy which would not be suppressed. Everything made her laugh; the gleaming dishes, the glancing firelight, the cat purring on the hearth, Aunt Jane’s sunburnt face, and even her looks of astonishment and frowns of reproach.
Mrs. Peartree looked distressed; for she was superstitious.
‘As sure as you’re alive, Madlin,’ she cried reprovingly, ‘that laugh o’ yourn means no good. I mind the day my poor brother Jim were drowned dead—I was laughing like a mad thing afore I got the news. Them as laughs i’ the morning will cry before night, I’m thinking.’
At this solemn warning Madeline’s hilarity received a sudden check, only to burst out again with renewed vehemence.
‘’Tis not on account of bad news, Aunt Jane!’ she said, ‘’tis because I’m soon going with Uncle Mark to London!’
But Aunt Jane was not to be convinced. She gravely shook her head, and a few hours later when she put the child to bed she said:—