But ay a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit till us a’;
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”
“That means me!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they heard him whistling the tune.
Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back, and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”
“Pretty is that pretty does,” replied the grandmother. “That means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”
She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”
“Mrs. who?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.
“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what is the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”
Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the wrinkled forehead. It was so unlike the charming vision she had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She asked herself, “Can it be she?” Then, with a suppressed, half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown?”