"Well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the little demure figure at his side, "I don't say that I have. I hope I thank God for his mercies, and am happy. But in this world, Mr. Carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws a care after it. Well well these things will all be arranged for us!"
It was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some subject of care, not vague nor undefined pressing upon Mr. Ringgan's mind as he said this.
"Have you heard from my mother lately, Fleda?" said her cousin.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Ringgan, "she had a letter from her only to-day. You ha'n't read it yet, have you, Fleda?"
"No, grandpa," said the little girl; "you know I've been busy."
"Ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let Cynthia bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till you're as red as a turkey-cock?"
"This morning I was like a chicken," said Fleda, laughing, "and now like a turkey-cock."
"Shall I tell mamma, Fleda," said young Rossitur, "that you put off reading her letter to bake muffins?"
Fleda answered without looking up, "Yes, if he pleased."
"What do you suppose she will think?"