“Humph? we will have Adelaide down here, and hear all about them,” responded her father, briskly.
“Well, I don’t know; I am afraid that would be painful to them, under their changed circumstances. Just as we were talking about Adelaide, Miss Mewlstone came in; and then they were so busy that I did not like to stay any longer. Ah, there is Mr. Drummond coming to interrupt us, as usual.”
And then the colonel retailed all this for Archie’s benefit. He had come in to glean a crumb or two of intelligence, if he could, about the Challoners’ movements, and the colonel’s garrulity furnished him with a rich harvest.
Phillis had taken Miss Mewlstone in hand at once in the intervals of business: she had inquired casually after Mrs. Cheyne’s injured ankle.
“It is going on well: she can stand now,” returned Miss Mewlstone. “The confinement has been very trying for her, poor thing, and she looks sadly the worse for it. Don’t take out those pins, my dear: what is the good of taking so much pains with a fat old thing like me and pricking your pretty fingers? Well, she is always asking me if I have seen any of you when I come home.”
“Mrs. Cheyne asks after us!” exclaimed Phillis, in a tone of astonishment.
“Ah, just so. She has not forgotten you. Magdalene never forgets any one in whom she takes interest; not that she likes many people, poor dear! but then so few understand her. They will not believe that it is all on the surface, and that there is a good heart underneath.”
“You call her Magdalene,” observed Phillis, rather curiously, looking up into Miss Mewlstone’s placid face.
“Ah, just so; I forgot. You see, I knew her as a child,—oh, such a wee toddling mite! younger than dear little Janie. I remember her just as though it were yesterday; the loveliest little creature,—prettier even than Janie!”
“Was Janie the child who died?”