On Mondays the town wore a more thriving appearance; huge wagons blocked up the market-place, stalls containing all sorts of wares occupied the central area, the countrywomen sold chickens and eggs, and tempting rolls of fresh butter, the gentlemen farmers congregated round the King's Arms; towards afternoon, horse-dealers tried their horses' paces up and down the long street, while the village curs made themselves conspicuous barking at their heels.
'I hope you will always make use of me in this way,' said Dr. Heriot, as he shook Mildred's wet cloak, and ushered them into the hall; 'the rain has damped you already, but I hope it is only a passing shower for the little rush-bearers' sakes to-morrow.'
'The barometer points to fair,' observed Polly, anxiously.
'Yes, and this shower will do all the good in the world, lay the dust, and render your long drive enjoyable. Ah! Miss Lambert, you have found out why Olive honours me by so many visits,' as Mildred glanced round the large handsome hall, fitted up by glass bookcases; and with its carpeted floor and round table, and brackets of blue dragon china looking thoroughly comfortable.
'This is my dining-room and consulting-room; my surgery is elsewhere,' continued Dr. Heriot. 'My drawing-room is so little used, that I am afraid Marjory often forgets to draw up the blinds.' And he showed Mildred the low-ceiled pleasant rooms, well-furnished, and tastefully arranged; but the drawing-room having the bare disused air of a room that a woman's footstep seldom enters. Mildred longed to droop the curtain into less stiff folds, and to fill the empty vases with flowers.
Polly spoke out her thought immediately afterwards.
'I mean to come in every morning on my way to school, and pull up the blinds, and fill that china bowl with roses. Marjory won't mind anything I do.'
'Your labour will be wasted, Polly,' returned her guardian, rather sadly. 'No one but Mrs. Sadler, or Miss Ortolan, or perhaps Mrs. Northcote, ever sits on that yellow couch. Your roses would waste their sweetness on the desert air; no one would look at them, or smell them; but it is a kind thought, little one,' with a gentle, approving smile.
'Which room was the scene of Polly's feast?' asked Mildred, curiously.
'Oh, the den—I mean the room I generally inhabit; it is snug, and opens into the conservatory; and I have grown to like it somehow. Now, Polly, you must make us some tea; but the question is, will you favour the yellow couch and the empty rose-bowls, Miss Lambert, or do you prefer the dining-room?'