“What is the use of repeating all that rubbish, Tom?” Bessie would say, in her sturdy fashion. “Do you think any one would hear us if we sung one of our glees? That will be better than talking about headless bogies to scare Hatty. I like singing by moonlight.”
Well, they were just healthy, happy young people, who knew how to make the most of small pleasures. “Every one could have air and sunshine and good spirits,” Bessie used to say, “if they ailed nothing and kept their consciences in good order. Laughing cost nothing, and talking was the cheapest amusement she knew.”
“That depends,” replied her father oracularly, on overhearing this remark. “Words are dear enough sometimes. You are a wise woman, Bessie, but you have plenty to learn yet. We all have to buy experience ourselves. I don’t want you to get your wisdom second-hand; second-hand articles don’t last; so laugh away, child, as long as you can.”
“I love spring,” thought Bessie, as she walked on. “I always did like bright things best. I wonder why I feel so hopeful to-day, just as though I expected something pleasant to happen. Nothing ever does happen, as Chriss says. Just a letter from Tom, telling us his news, or an invitation to tea with a neighbor, or perhaps a drive out into the country with father. Well, they are not big things, but they are pleasant, for all that. I do like a long talk with father, when he has no troublesome case on his mind, and can give me all his attention. I think there is no treat like it; but I mean Hatty to have the next turn. She has been good lately; but she looks pale and dwindled. I am not half comfortable about her.” And here Bessie broke off her cogitations, for at that moment Katie rushed out of the house and began dancing up and down, waving a letter over her head.
“What a time you have been!” cried the child excitedly. “I have been watching for you for half an hour. Here is a letter for your own self, and it is not from Aunt Charlotte nor Uncle Charles, nor any old fogy at all.”
“Give it to me, please,” returned Bessie. “I suppose it is from Tom, though why you should make such a fuss about it, as though no one ever got a letter, passes my comprehension. No, it is from Miss Sefton; I recognize her handwriting;” which was true, as Bessie had received a note from Edna a few days after she had left them, conveying her own and her mother’s thanks for the kind hospitality she had received.
“Of course it is from Miss Sefton; there’s the Oatlands post-mark. Ella and I were trying to guess what was in it; we thought that perhaps, as Mrs. Sefton is so rich, she might have sent you a present for being so kind to her daughter; that was Ella’s idea. Do open it quickly, Bessie; what is the use of looking at the envelope?”
“I am afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity just yet, Kitty. Hatty is waiting for the silks I have been matching, and mother will want to know how old Mrs. Wright is. Duty before pleasure,” finished Bessie, with good-humored peremptoriness, as she marched off in the direction of the morning-room.
“Bessie is getting dreadfully old-maidish,” observed Katie, in a sulky voice. “She never used to be so proper. I suppose she thinks it is none of my business.”
When Bessie had got through her list of commissions she sat down to enjoy her letter quietly, but before she had read many lines her color rose, and a half-stifled exclamation of surprise came from her lips; but, in spite of Hatty’s curious questions, she read steadily to the end, and then laid the letter on her mother’s lap.