"It is so warm, and the house feels so stuffy!" she added; for Waveney loved air and exercise, and would gladly have been out of doors the greater part of the day.
Mollie willingly assented to this, but she was languid and out of spirits, and soon grew tired; so they sat down under an acacia in old Ranelagh and watched the children playing round them. It was one of those golden days of September, when the very air seems impregnated with strange sweet fragrance, when one thinks of waving corn-fields, and how the wheat ripples in the breeze like a yellow sea; and of deep, quiet lanes—with nut copses and blackberry thickets—or, better still, of a hillside clothed with purple heather, as though Nature had flung one of her royal robes aside. A day when the grand old earth seemed mellow and ripe for the sickle of old Time, and a soft sadness and sense of quiet brooding are over everything. "The summer is over," it seemed to say, "and the fleeting shows of youth, and the fruits of the earth are garnered in Nature's storehouse, and the feast of all good things is ready; so eat and enjoy, and be thankful."
The sisters were sitting hand in hand, and Waveney's small face looked pinched and long from inward fretting, for she was one who took the troubles of life with outward calmness, and chafed under them inwardly; but the sunshine, and the crisp, sweet air and the soft patter of red and yellow leaves, brought their message of comfort.
"Mollie," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "I am thinking what a beautiful world it is, and how good life is, after all, in spite of worries. Here we are, making ourselves miserable because I have to go away to-morrow. Do you know, we are like those two foolish children we saw that day when father took us in the country. Don't you remember how they cried because their nurse wanted them to go down a lane—it was so dark and narrow, they said, and they were sure the wolves would eat them up; but the nurse knew there was that lovely open meadow beyond. Do you read my little parable, dear?"
"Yes, I think so," returned Mollie; but she spoke doubtfully. Waveney was rather prone to moralise when she found herself alone with Mollie. She called it "thinking aloud." Mollie was her other self. She could tell her things that she would not have breathed to any other creature.
"Well, you see," went on Waveney, "one has steep little bits of road now and then, like that poor King of Corinth—Sisyphus—was not that his name? We have to roll our stone up the hill Difficulty; but one never knows what may happen next. By the bye, Mollie, I rather fancy that Monsieur Blackie only pretends to play at things, and that he is really a clever man. There is something I cannot make out about him. He is mysterious. And then, why did he buy 'King Canute'?"
"Because his friend wanted a historical picture," returned Mollie, who always believed what people said.
"I know he told us so," replied Waveney, thoughtfully. "Mollie, I have a sort of conviction that you will often see him—that he means to turn up pretty frequently at Cleveland Terrace."
"Whatever makes you think so?" asked Mollie, much astonished at this. "What a ridiculous idea, Wave! when you told him yourself that you were leaving home to-morrow."
"But he does not come to see me," retorted Waveney; and then she added, hastily, "he is a friendly sort of person, and comes to see us all."