"Fifine—ah! I was near forgetting her," and he plunges his one hand into the deep pocket of his military coat and pulls out a creature which climbs to his shoulder, and there sits purring—a white fluffy cat with pink eyes.
"Why, you little fool," cries old Herr postmaster as he comes behind me and lifts me within reach of Franz, "didn't I say it was a cat of a French woman?"
There is a light quick stride at the door—a loud jödel—a bright laugh—and Hofer stoops his tall body and looks round. A cloud comes over his face almost before he has greeted the dear mistress, and kissed me on the cheek. "Where is Bertha?" he asks, and before we can answer him he has darted out again, and we have scarcely lost the sound of his rapid step before he is back among us, bearing the poor child in his arms. We chafe her hands and feet, and warm and comfort her. Dear Bertha, she had been so faithful watching there by the wall, and Hofer had stopped behind to help up a fallen horse, and when he came not she fainted and fell with cold and fear. But now we are all together in the great kitchen, and supper is getting ready, and wine is on the table, and the dear master and mistress are with their little ones at the Christmas-tree, that makes a path of glory on the outer snow.
"Bertha, thou surely hast the second sight," says the old postmaster as he looks at her. The colour comes again rose-red into her cheek as Hofer draws her closer to his side.
"Yes," says she, "it is love that gives it. One has second sight when one thinks no longer of one's self but of another."
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It was Saturday afternoon, and our week's work was nearly over. On Monday the great fancy fair was to be held, and the side-table in Miss Grantley's pleasant parlour was covered with samples of all kinds of needle-work, in lace, wool, crewel, applique, and on linen, satin, velvet, silk, and cloth. There were handscreens, water-colour sketches, embroidery, bead-work, and all kinds of dainty knick-knacks, and we still had the finishing touches to put to some of our presents—still had a few completing stitches to put to some of the plainer articles, which were to make the back ground for the stall where Miss Grantley was to be saleswoman.
When we came into the parlour she was not there. Saturday was a holiday, so there had been no school in the morning, and we had gone on purpose to finish our week's work for the fancy fair.
We had scarcely taken off our hats, and indeed most of us had stepped outside the window into the garden when she came into the room. There was a singularly radiant eager look in her face, her eyes shone bright as though they had been washed with glad tears, and as she kissed us one by one there was more than the usual impressiveness, or what the French would call effusion in her manner. Annie Bowers looked at her with a quick inquiring glance, but said nothing. Marian Cooper, who had grown as tall as Miss Grantley was herself, held her hand tight, and spoke in a low tone, but loud enough for us all to hear as we had clustered round. "What story have you to tell us this evening, Miss Grantley? Something has happened. Is it a love story, dear? Are you going to tell us that you have promised to be married?"
"No, indeed, I am not, for no such promise has been given; and there is no love story of which I am the heroine, I assure you. For all that, I have had a letter from a gentleman—a letter from my brother in Australia—which may alter my plans for the future. My dear girls, my dear friends and companions, I think you know that you are all very dear to me, and I believe you love me too a little; but of course in a few months at farthest most of you will leave me. You will have given up school, but not, I hope, given up reading and as much work and study as will keep you a good and useful place in the world. It is most likely that some of you will be married before I am, for I shall remain here for some time, and until I find a successor to take the school, and then I intend to go to the other side of the world. Whether Mrs. Parmigan will go with me I don't know. What I do know, and the only thing I can think about at this moment, is the real sorrow I shall have in parting with you all. But we should have to part in any case. The world of new duties and of new interests would be opening to you even if I remained here and grew old as the governess of Barton Vale. I should always rejoice to hear of your happiness and sympathize with you in trouble; but you would not be likely to be in a position to seek either my sympathy or my counsel, for others would have the greater right and the closer communion. But believe me, pray believe me when I tell you, that as the next six months go by I shall dread our parting, though more than half of you seven girls will have left me before that time arrives. Now, my dears, let us have tea, and then I will read you my brother's letter, for you are all my dear friends—my very closest friends to-night; and that letter shall be my story. It's more of a man's story than a girl's, but it is nearly all about a girl for all that."