And still as the week went by Ann seemed to be gaining in strength.
At lunch, a telegram from Charles Grey, Baltimore, said, "Penhallow here, doing well. Will return on the 14th, by afternoon train, with Rivers and servant."
"Read that, dear—I want you, Leila, to ride to the mills and tell Dr.
McGregor that I will send the carriage for him in time for him to meet
your uncle at the station. I had better not meet him—and there will be
Mark Rivers and Josiah and—but you will see to all that."
"Certainly, aunt."
"It will be the day after to-morrow. Be sure that the doctor makes no mistake. There are two trains—he will be on the four o'clock express." This was in the manner of her Aunt Ann of former days. "Shall I write it down?"
Leila cried, "No," and fled, laughing.
The next day to Leila's surprise and pleasure her aunt came down to breakfast and quietly took her place as mistress of the tea-urn. The talent of common sense as applicable to the lesser social commerce of life was one of Leila's gifts, and she made no comment on her aunt's amazing resumption of her old habits. Ann herself felt some inclination to explain her rapid recovery of health, and said as she took the long-vacant seat at the breakfast table, "I think, Leila, the doctor's last tonic has been of use to me—I feel quite like myself." Having thus anticipated her too sharp-eyed niece's congratulations, Leila's expression of pleasure came in accordant place. Whereupon they both smiled across the table, having that delicate appreciation of the needs of the situation which is rarely at the service of the blundering mind of man.
The moment of gentle hypocrisy passed, the mistress of Grey Pine took up her memoranda for the day, and said with some attempt at being just her usual self, "I shall walk to Westways after breakfast—Pole needs to be talked to. The meats have been of his worst lately." Then with a glance at the paper, "Your uncle's books must be dusted; I quite forgot it; I will set Susan to work this morning."
"But," said Leila, "he does hate that, Aunt Ann. The last time she succeeded in setting together 'Don Juan' and 'St. Thomas à Kempis.'"
Ann laughed, and said with some of her old sense of humour, "It might do them both good—dust them yourself."