"What a gay fellow he is!" said Ray, drawing a breath of relief. "They're all alike, dancing on graves. To be an old Téméraire decked out in signal-flags after thunderous work well done, and settling down, is one thing. But we,—to-day, when one would think every woman in the land should wear the sackcloth and ashes of mourning, we break into a splendor of apparel that defies the butterflies and boughs of the dying year."
"Two striking examples before you," said little Jane, with a laugh, as she looked at her old print and at Vivia's gray gown.
"I wasn't thinking of you. I saw the ladies in the village yesterday,—they were pied and parded."
"Children," said Mrs. Vennard from within, "I've taken up the coffee now. I sha'n't wait a minute longer. Vivia, I'll beat an egg into yours."
But the children had wandered down to the lake-shore, oblivious of her cry, and were standing on the rock watching their images glassed below and ever freshly shattered with rippling undulations. A wherry chained beside them Vivia rocked lightly with her foot.
"You and little Jane will set me down by-and-by?" she asked. "'T will be so much pleasanter than the coach."
"And, Vivia dear, you will go, then?" exclaimed little Jane, with tearful eyes. "You will certainly go?"
"Yes," said Vivia, looking out and far away, "I shall go to do that"—
"Which no one can ever do for you," said Ray, with a shudder.
"Which some woman will praise Heaven for."