CHAPTER IX.
THE PEACOCKS.
No doubts troubled Dolly's mind during that drive, about dress or anything else. Her dress she had forgotten indeed; and the pain of leaving her mother at home was forced to give way before the multitude of new and pleasant impressions. That drive was pure enjoyment. The excitement and novelty of the occasion gave no doubt a spur to Dolly's spirits and quickened her perceptions; they were all alive, as the carriage rolled along over the smooth roads. What could be better than to drive so, on such an evening, through such a country? For the weather was perfect, the landscape exceedingly rich and fair, the vegetation in its glory. And the roads themselves were full of the most varied life, and offered to the little American girl a flashing, changing, very amusing and abundantly suggestive scene. Dolly's eyes were incessantly busy, yet her lips did not move unless to smile; and her father for a long time would not interrupt her meditations. Good that she should forget herself, he thought; if she were recalled to the practical present maybe she would grow nervous. That was the only thing Mr. Copley was afraid of. However, for him to keep absolute silence beyond a limited time was out of his nature.
"Are you happy, Dolly?" he asked her.
"Very happy, father! If only mother was with us."
"Ah, yes, it would have been rather pleasanter for you; but you must not mind that."
"I am afraid I do not mind it enough, I am so amused with everything. I cannot help it."
"That's right. Now, Dolly"
"Yes, father"
"I should like to know what you have been thinking of all this while. I have been watching the smiles coming and going."