“Summer?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a pleasant day?”
“Yes.”
Despairing of Aunt Debby’s communicativeness, Alice returned to her solitude, roused a vigorous flame in the grate, and sitting down on an ottoman beside Carlo, commenced an attack on his taciturnity.
“But hark! those are father’s bells! No—yes! yes, they are come!”
Girl and dog sprang to their feet together, and ran to the door. In her haste Alice brushed something from the work-table. It was nothing but her mother’s needle-book, but she pressed it to her lips as she tenderly replaced it, and passed more slowly into the hall.
The cordial greetings were over. The cloaks and furs were laid aside, and Alice sat down in the chimney-corner to observe the new-comer, in whose face the full radiance of the bright fire shone, while she conversed with Aunt Debby about the journey and the weather.
“She is not pretty,” thought she. “Very unlike mother—taller and statelier, with black eyes and hair—still, her features are noble, and she looks good.”
She came to this satisfactory conclusion just as her father suddenly exclaimed—