'I am not thinking of that. But, papa, it must be sixteen or seventeen years now; isn't it?'
'Something like so much.'
'Oh, papa, do write to them! do write to them, and make it up. Do not let the quarrel last any longer.'
'Write to them and make it up?' said the colonel, rubbing his head again. In all his life Esther had hardly ever seen him do it before. 'They have forgotten me long ago; and I suppose they are all grown out of my remembrance. But it might be better for you if we went home.'
'Never mind that, papa; that is not what I am thinking of. Why, who could be better off than I am? But write and make it all up, papa; do! It isn't good for families to live so in hostility. Do what you can to make it up.'
The colonel sat silent, rubbing the hair of his head in every possible direction, while Esther's fancy for a while busied itself with images of an unknown crowd of relations that seemed to flit before her. How strange it would be to have aunts and cousins; young and old family friends, such as other girls had; instead of being so entirely set apart by herself, as it were. It was fascinating, the mere idea. Not that Esther felt her loneliness now; she was busy and healthy and happy; yet this sudden vision made her realise that she was alone. How strange and how pleasant it would be to have a crowd of friends, of one's own blood and name! She mused a little while over this picture, and then came back to the practical present.
'Meanwhile, papa, what do you think of my plan? About getting a house in the city, and giving up Buonaparte and his oats? Don't you think it would be comfortable?'
The colonel considered the subject now in a quieter mood, discussed it a little further, and finally agreed to drive into town and see what he could find in the way of a house.