“I am so glad! I will come again,” he said, rather incoherently. And as he went out of the green door he told himself that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting family. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for it was long past the time when she always expected to hear from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this duty. It 157 would be difficult to explain to Grace. She might be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, being her mother’s daughter. He thought he would ask Mattie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, he went down to the sea-shore and amused himself by sitting on a breakwater and staring at the fishing-smacks,—which of course showed how very busy he was.
“I think I shall like Mr. Drummond,” observed Mrs. Challoner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young vicar to the door. “He seems an earnest, good sort of young man.”
“Yes, mammie dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love with you,” returned Phillis, naughtily, “for he talked to no one else. And you are so young-looking and pretty that of course no one could be surprised if he did.” But though Mrs. Challoner said, “Oh, Phillis!” and looked dreadfully shocked in a proper matronly way, what was the use of that, when the mischievous girl burst out laughing in her face?
But the interruption had done them all good, and the evening passed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mistress, the three girls went out in the garden, and walked, after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing her on the gravel path.
Their mother’s window was open, and they could have heard snatches of Dorothy’s conversation if they had chosen to listen. Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss towards her mother’s room.
“Dear old mamsie! She has been very good this evening, has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when you kissed her.”
“Yes, indeed. And somebody else has been good too. What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child possible?”
“Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise,” returned Dulce, in such an earnest manner that it made her sisters laugh, “Do you think I could see you both so good and cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, even when the tears are in your eyes,—as yours are often, Nan, when you think no one is looking,—and not try and copy your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both,—that is what I am,” continued the warm-hearted girl. “I never knew before what was in my sisters. And now I feel as though I want the whole world to come and admire my Phillis and Nan!”
“Little flatterer!” but Nan squeezed Dulce’s arm affectionately. And Phillis said, in a joking tone,— 158
“Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was mother looking so dear and pretty: and there were you girls; and, though the nest is small, it feels warm and cosy. And if we could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old faces, which I never shall—” (“Nor I,” echoed Nan, with a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere)—“and root ourselves afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy.”