Kitabı oxu: «The Old Pincushion: or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests», səhifə 5

CHAPTER VII.
BREAKFAST IN BED

Notwithstanding her great fatigue, it was very early the next morning when Kathleen woke. At first she could not remember where she was, then a slight aching in her head and stiff pains in her legs reminded her of the long and trying journey of the day before. Now that it was over, however, it really seemed like a dream.

And one glance towards the window, of which the blind had only been half drawn down, made it almost impossible to believe in the darkness and dreariness of their arrival the night before. The rain was gone; the sun, though it could not be more than six o'clock, was shining brilliantly in an unclouded sky. From where Kathie lay she could see the fresh green leaves of the trees as they moved gently in the soft summer air; she could faintly hear the birds' busy, cheerful twitter, as they flew from branch to branch.

'Oh, I do love the country!' thought the little girl, with a sudden feeling of warmth and joyfulness in her heart. 'I do wish – oh, how I do wish it were going to be our home!'

Then there returned to her the remembrance of Miss Clotilda's last words the night before. The cupboard door had not been quite shut, and it had gradually swung open, revealing piles of linen neatly arranged on one shelf, on another various dresses folded away, and on a lower shelf, which Kathie could see into more clearly, some rolls of canvas, bundles of Berlin wool, and in one corner two or three square-looking objects of various colours, which puzzled her as to what they could be.

'I will ask Aunt Clotilda,' she thought. 'I daresay she will show me Mrs. Wynne's things. Some of them must be very old and curious. What a funny room this is! – all corners, and the window such a queer shape! I feel quite in a hurry to see all the house. I daresay it is very nice – the hall and the staircase seemed beautifully wide last night, and the steps were so broad and shallow. But, oh dear! I wish my legs didn't ache so! Poor Aunt Clotilda! I am very sorry I called her stupid, and all that. She is so kind.'

But in the midst of all these thinkings she fell asleep again, and slept for more than two hours. When she woke she heard a cuckoo clock outside her room striking eight.

'Dear me!' she said to herself; 'how late it is! and I meant to be up so early;' and she was just beginning to get out of bed when a soft tap came to the door.

'Come in,' said Kathleen; and in came Aunt Clotilda, her kind face and gentle eyes looking brighter and younger by daylight, and behind her, Martha, carrying a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, on which was arranged a most dainty little breakfast for the young lady, whom Miss Clotilda evidently intended to pet a great deal to make up for yesterday's misfortunes.

'Oh, aunty,' said Kathie, 'I was just going to get up. I am so sorry to give you so much trouble,' and she lifted up her face to kiss Miss Clotilda.

'No, no, my dear,' her aunt replied. 'You are to rest to-day as much as you like. Neville is up, and he and I have had our breakfast. He peeped in an hour ago, and saw you were fast asleep, as I was glad to hear. It is just nine o'clock, so I thought you must be getting hungry.'

'Nine o'clock!' Kathleen repeated. 'Why, I thought the cuckoo struck eight.'

'He is a lazy bird,' said Miss Clotilda smiling. 'He is always an hour behind. I must get him put right – at least,' she went on, correcting herself, 'I meant to have done so. It is not worth while now. Now, dear, see if we have brought you what you like for your breakfast.

'It is delicious!' said Kathleen. 'I could live on the bread and butter alone, without anything else. And honey! Oh, how lovely! Aunt Clotilda, I have never been so petted before,' she burst out, 'never in all my life. How very good you are! Do you know I've been more than six years at school without ever having what I call a holiday till now? Do kiss me, aunty.'

Kathie's heart was fairly won. There were tears in Miss Clotilda's eyes as she stooped to kiss her.

'But they are not unkind to you at school, dear?' she said. 'If you are ever ill, for instance.'

'Oh, no, they are kind enough; but it's different – not the least like home. I can understand better already what other girls who can remember their homes meant when they said so. Philippa Harley, you know, aunty – oh no, of course you don't know; but I'll tell you about her. She has always been with her mother till lately, and she was always saying how different home was.'

Martha had by this time disappeared. Miss Clotilda sat down by the bed-side, while Kathie proceeded to eat her breakfast, chattering in the intervals.

'You make me very happy, dear Kathie, when you say you have already a home feeling with me,' said Miss Clotilda – 'very happy, and,' with the sigh that Kathleen was at no loss to translate, 'very unhappy.'

For a few moments neither spoke. Then Kathleen began again.

'Aunty, even though the house isn't going to be yours any more, or ours, you'll show us all the things in it, won't you?'

'Certainly, my dear. I want you to know it well, and to remember it always,' Miss Clotilda replied.

Kathie's glance just then fell on the lace frills of her night-gown, and thence strayed to the half-open cupboard.

'What are those queer-looking square things of different colours in there, aunty?' she asked.

Miss Clotilda's glance followed hers. Just at that moment Neville put his head in at the door, and asked if he might come in. His face beamed with pleasure when he saw Kathleen and his aunt chatting together so 'friendlily.'

'Those things in the cupboard?' said Miss Clotilda. 'Oh! they are some of Mrs. Wynne's pincushions. I wrapped up the new ones – one or two she had just finished, poor dear, when she was taken ill – and those are some old ones that were to have been fresh covered. I have lots of beautiful pieces of old-fashioned silk.'

'Oh, how nice!' said Kathleen. 'I hope you will let me see them, aunty. But please tell me' —

At that moment, however, Martha came to the door to say that John Williams had called for orders about fetching the trunks from the station.

'He must have some writing to show, he says,' said the old woman. 'But he's so stupid – maybe he doesn't understand.'

'It's better, perhaps, to give him a note to the station-master,' said Miss Clotilda. 'I'll come and speak to him.'

'I'll write the note,' said Neville running off.

'Aunty,' said Kathie, as Miss Clotilda was preparing to follow him, 'mayn't I get up now? I'm only a little stiff, but I'm not at all tired; and I'm in such a hurry to see the house, and the garden, and everything.'

'Very well, dear,' her aunt replied. 'Martha will get your bath ready. Can you manage with the things you have till your trunk comes this evening?'

'Oh, yes,' said Kathleen. 'My frock did not get wet at all. It's only rather crushed. And I brought my house shoes in my hand-bag. Philippa made me; she said it was such a good plan.'

'She must be a very sensible little girl,' said Miss Clotilda.

'She's a dear little girl every way,' said Kathie. 'I'm sure you'd like her dreadfully, aunty.'

She was feeling very cordial to Philippa this morning, thinking how much the little girl had tried to influence her to come to Ty-gwyn.

'But for her,' thought Kathleen, 'I'm not at all sure that I would have come. I was so sure I shouldn't like Aunt Clotilda.'

As soon as she was dressed she ran off in search of Neville, who was 'somewhere about,' old Martha told her. She found him in the garden, and together they began their explorings. By daylight the White House was far from the desolate-looking place they had fancied it the night before. It was a long house, built half-way up a gentle slope, and the entrance was, so to speak, at the back. You did not see anything of the pretty view on which looked out the principal rooms till you had crossed the large, dark-wainscoted hall, and made your way down the long corridor from whence opened the drawing-room, and library and dining-room, all large and pleasant rooms, with old-fashioned furniture, and everywhere the same faint scent, which Kathleen had noticed more strongly up-stairs, of lavender and dried rose-leaves. This part of the house was more modern than the hall and kitchens, and two other rooms, in the very old days the 'parlours,' no doubt – now called the study and the office. For the house had been added to by a Mr. Wynne, the late owner's father, a grand-uncle to David and Clotilda Powys.

'Then the old part is very old indeed, I suppose?' said Neville to his aunt, who by this time had joined them.

'Very old indeed,' she said. 'And up-stairs it seems very rambling, for there are good rooms built over the pantry and dairy and the other offices, all of which are very large. I had it all planned in my head,' she went on, 'and even Mrs. Wynne herself used often to talk of what rooms would suit you all best when it came to be your father's. Up this little stair' – for by this time they were on the first floor again – 'there are two rooms which would have made such nice nurseries for little Vida, and the "office," as we call it, could easily have been turned into a very pleasant schoolroom.'

The children were delighted with it all. Up-stairs, indeed, it was precisely the sort of house to captivate young people. It was so full of mysterious passages and unexpected staircases, and corner windows and queer doors, and steps up and steps down, that it seemed larger than it really was, and of course the usual praise was pronounced upon it, that it would be 'just the place for a game at hide-and-seek.'

Then when the house had been seen, Miss Clotilda sent them out, with directions not to wander too far, as they must be home for dinner at two o'clock.

'You cannot lose your way,' she said, 'if you take a good view all round. The sea is only a mile off on two sides – west and south – and this house therefore faces the sea, though the little hill in front hides it.'

'The sea!' exclaimed Kathie. 'Why, aunty, if I had known we were so near the sea, I should have been in such a hurry to see it, I wouldn't have slept all night. Did you know, Neville?'

'I didn't know it was so near,' said Neville.

'Go up the little hill, and then you will understand where you are,' said Miss Clotilda. 'There is the old church, too, and the ruins of the abbey beside it. You will find there is plenty to see at Hafod.'

'I don't care much for churches,' said Kathie, 'but I'd like to see the ruins.'

'Then set off at once; it is fine and sunny just now, but I don't think the weather is very settled. Near the sea we have to expect sudden changes,' said Miss Clotilda.

The children eagerly followed her advice. They climbed up the hill, which they reached by a path through the garden, and then they were well rewarded for their trouble. The view before them was a beautiful and uncommon one. At their feet, so to speak, lay the wide-stretching ocean, sparkling and gleaming in the sunshine, and further inland stood the grand old church and ruins, with the white cottages of the scattered village dotted about in various directions.

'How queer it is to see that great church in such a little place!' said Kathleen. 'It doesn't seem to belong to it, and yet it looks grander than if it was in the middle of a town; doesn't it, Neville?'

'I suppose there was a great monastery, or something like that, here once,' said Neville; 'perhaps before there was any village at all. I think I have read something about it. We must ask Aunt Clotilda. Isn't it a beautiful place, Kathleen? Oh, don't you wish dreadfully it was going to be our home?'

Kathleen sighed. She had not before understood how much she should wish it.

'Look there, Neville,' she said, pointing to a white thread which wound over the hills, sometimes hidden for a little, then emerging again, 'that must be the road from Frewern Bay that we came along last night. Don't we seem far away from London and from everywhere? Do you like the feeling? I think I rather do, except for poor old Phil.'

But Neville did not at once answer her. He was standing with his eyes fixed on the sea.

'I don't feel so far from papa and mamma here as in London,' he said; 'I like it for that.'

Kathleen's gaze followed his.

'Poor papa and mamma!' she said. 'Oh, Neville, how I wish we could find the will!'

They spent the rest of the morning, greatly to their own satisfaction, in visiting the ruins, and, as by a fortunate chance the door was open, the church also. It was so unlike anything they had ever seen, that even Kathie was full of admiration, and determined to learn all she could of its history.

'We must ask Aunt Clotilda to tell us all about it,' she said. 'I daresay she has books where we can read about it, too. Papa and mamma would be pleased if we – oh dear! there it comes in about that will to spoil things again! I suppose it's best not to write much about things here to them; it would only make it seem worse to them.'

'Perhaps it would,' said Neville; 'but we can say lots about Aunt Clotilda, and that will please papa and mamma. Oh, Kathie, don't you like her?'

Kathie grew rather red.

'Yes,' she said, 'I do. I like her awfully. I love her, Neville, and – and – I'm very sorry I called her stupid, and all that.'

'Dear Kathie,' said Neville, 'you didn't know her.'

'Well, no more did you,' said Kathleen; 'but you're much better than me, Neville. So is Philippa.'

'Dear Kathie,' said Neville again, 'it's only that you've not had mamma with you, or anybody like that. I was older than you, you know, when they left us. And Philippa's always had her mother. But now you have aunty.'

'Yes,' said Kathleen; but she sighed as she said it.

They turned to go home again, for they had not yet half explored the garden, which bid fair to be quite as delightful as the house. A little door in the wall was standing half open, and peeping in, they saw that it led by a footpath to the front door. There Miss Clotilda was standing talking to a funny-looking old man with a canvas bag slung over his back. Miss Clotilda seemed rather annoyed, and was speaking very earnestly.

'You are sure, then, John Parry, quite sure, you have not dropped or left it at the wrong house, or anything like that?'

The old man only smiled amiably in a sort of superior way.

'Sure, miss? To be sure I am. You'll see miss, the letter has never been posted. Good-day to you, miss. Indeed, I am glad the young gentleman and lady's got safe here;' and he trotted off.

'It's about your letter, Neville,' said his aunt. 'I was certain it would turn up this morning. But it has not come, and it makes me uneasy. Just think, if one of your dear papa's letters was to be lost. I have got fidgety about letters and papers, I suppose.'

'It's very queer,' said Neville. 'All our other letters have come quite rightly.'

'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda. 'However, my dears, as I've got you safe here I must not grumble.'

She went back into the house to fetch her garden-hat, in which, Kathie could not help whispering to Neville, she did look a funny old dear. For the hat was about the size of a small clothes-basket, and Miss Clotilda despised all such invisible modes of fastening as elastic and hat-pins. She secured her head-dress with a good honest pair of black ribbon strings, firmly tied, for Ty-gwyn was a blowy place, as might have been expected from its nearness to the sea.

The three spent the rest of the morning most happily in the garden, visiting, too, the now disused dairy, and the poultry-yard, where Miss Clotilda's cocks and hens, in blissful ignorance of the fate before them, were clucking and pecking about.

'I must fatten and kill them all off before the autumn,' she said; 'at least, nearly all. I could not have the heart to kill my special pets. I will give some to the neighbours.'

'Aunty,' said Kathleen, as they were returning to the house, 'there is something I wanted to ask you, and I can't remember what it is.'

Miss Clotilda's memory could not help her.

'Perhaps you will think of it afterwards,' she said.

And probably Kathie would have done so, had it not happened that her aunt had that morning, while the children were out, closed and locked the old cupboard in the little girl's room. So there was nothing to remind her of what she had been on the point of asking Miss Clotilda about Mrs. Wynne's old pincushions.

CHAPTER VIII.
NEWS FROM PHILIPPA

The next two or three days passed most pleasantly. The weather, as if to make up for its bad behaviour on the day of their journey, was particularly fine, and the children were out from morning till night. Old Martha thought privately to herself that it was a good thing the neighbours were so kind, for they were even 'better than their word,' in sending all sorts of good things to Ty-gwyn for the Captain's children, as Neville and Kathleen's appetites, thanks to the change of air and the sea breezes, were really rather alarming. And Miss Clotilda was so perfectly happy to see them both so bright and well, that she tried to banish all painful thoughts as much as she could.

Still they were there; and when the poor lady was alone in her room at night, it was often more than she could do to restrain her tears. For the happier the children were, the more she learned to love them, the more bitterly, as was natural, did she feel the disappointment of not being able to hope to see much more of them. But she said little or nothing of her feelings, and the children – Kathie especially – little suspected their depth. Kathie was living entirely in the present; she but rarely gave a thought to the ideas Philippa had suggested. And Neville, though less carelessly light-hearted and forgetful, was slower both of thought and speech. He could see nothing to be done, and for some time he rather shrank from coming upon the subject with his aunt.

It came to be spoken of at last, however, and this was how it happened.

One morning, about the fourth or fifth of their visit, old John Parry, with a great air of importance, as if he were doing her a special service, handed to Kathleen a rather fat letter, addressed to herself.

'You see, miss, to be sure I never make no mistakes,' he said.

For he was quite aware that Miss Clotilda still in her heart, somehow or other, associated him with the mysterious loss of Neville's letter, and he wished to keep up his dignity in the eyes of the stranger young lady.

'Oh yes, thank you,' said Kathie, not quite knowing what else to say. For in London one's personal acquaintance with the postman – or postmen, rather – is necessarily of the slightest.

'What a comical old fellow he is!' she said to herself, as she ran off. 'I daresay he did lose the letter, after all. How amused Phil would be at the people here, and the funny way they talk! Dear old Phil! I wonder what she has got to say, and what she has written such a long letter about?' For the moment she got it in her hand she recognised little Philippa's careful, childish handwriting on the envelope.

'Aren't you coming out, Kathie?' Neville called out from some mysterious depths, where he was absorbed in arranging his fishing-tackle.

'Not yet. I've got a long letter from Philippa. You'll find me in the library if you look in in a few minutes.'

And in a comfortable corner of the deep window seat Kathie established herself to enjoy Philippa's budget. It was in the library that Miss Clotilda and the children spent most of their time. The drawing-room was a more formal and less cosy room, and the library gave old Martha less to do in the way of dusting and daily putting to rights. It was a dear old room, filled with books from floor to ceiling, many of them doubtless of little value, others probably of great worth in a connoisseur's eyes – had connoisseurs ever come to Ty-gwyn – for all were old, very old.

'How Philippa would like this room!' thought Kathie to herself. 'Phil is like Neville; she's far more sentimental and poetical, and all that sort of thing, than I am. I do hope she's enjoying her holidays.'

She opened the envelope as she spoke. Out tumbled another letter, closed, addressed, and stamped, but which had evidently never been through the post. It was Neville's letter to Miss Clotilda!

'Oh!' Kathie ejaculated.

Then she turned to Philippa's own letter. It was dated, 'Cheltenham,' and she began, child fashion, by telling that she had got there safe, and she hoped Kathleen and her brother had got to Ty-gwyn safe, and that they were both quite well. Then she went on with rather doleful news. Her poor grandmother was ill; she had been taken ill the very night Philippa came, and though she was a little better the doctor said she would not be well for a long time, and she was to go away somewhere for change of air. Philippa was not allowed to see her, and her uncle did not know what to do, but he had told Philippa he was afraid she would have to go back to school, and stay there for the rest of the holidays.

'Uncle is kind, but he doesn't know how awful it will be,'

wrote the poor little girl;

'and I don't like to tell him, because he is so troubled about grandmamma. It is most because you won't be there, dear Kathie. That Wednesday was as long as a week, when you had gone. I am afraid I am to go in three or four days. Uncle will take me. Do write quick to poor little Phil, and don't' forget your promise.'

Then came a postscript, Philippa having evidently been too absorbed by her own woes to think of anything else while she was writing the letter.

'I found this letter in your old serge frock pocket – the one that was too shabby to take with you. I meant to send it to you before, but I wasn't sure how to write the address; you wrote it on such a scrap of paper. I will keep this till to-night, and ask uncle to help me. I hope it won't matter, for as you are there your aunt won't need letters from you. I was feeling in your pocket for my new bit of india-rubber that I lent you, but it wasn't there.'

Kathie sat quite still for a minute or two after reading all this. Then she took up Neville's letter and looked at it vaguely.

'Yes,' she said to herself, 'I must have slipped it into my pocket, meaning to have it posted with my own note to Neville. How careless of me! and to think how I went on about aunty not meeting us at the station.'

It was a good lesson for Kathie. The softening process had begun, and she was already ashamed to remember the way in which she had spoken of Miss Clotilda. And she was not a little mortified at now finding that she, and she alone, had been to blame. But Kathleen was courageous and honest. After a moment or two's hesitation, she got up and marched off, letters in hand, to the dining-room, where she knew she should find her aunt at that time of day.

'Aunty,' she said, and Miss Clotilda looked up from the fine old damask tablecloth she was carefully darning – she prided herself on her darning, and though the table-linen, as well as everything else, was Mr. Wynne-Carr's now, she would not on that account relax in her carefulness – 'Aunty, I've got something to tell you. It wasn't old John Parry's fault about that letter, nor anybody's but mine. Look,' and she held it up, 'it's never been posted at all;' and she went on to explain to Miss Clotilda how it had been found. 'I am so sorry,' she said at the end.

Just then Neville came in. 'I have been looking everywhere for you, Kathie,' he said; and then the story had to be told to him again.

'I am sorry,' Kathie repeated, 'and ashamed,' she added, in a lower voice, and Neville saw that the tears were quivering on her eyelids. He understood.

'Poor dear child,' said Miss Clotilda, 'you shouldn't take it to heart so. It'll be a little lesson to you to be more careful about such things; will it not, dear?'

'Yes, indeed,' said Kathleen. She could not tell her kind aunt why she felt it so much – it would have been wrong to pain her by repeating the naughty, foolish things she had said of her – and this in itself made the impression still deeper.

'And the little girl – your friend who has written to you – is she not the same one you were speaking of the other day?' asked Miss Clotilda, to change the subject.

'Yes, aunty; and oh, I am so sorry for her! May I tell you what she says?' And Kathie read aloud Philippa's letter.

'Poor little girl!' said Miss Clotilda. 'What does she mean by asking you at the end not to forget your promise?'

'Oh,' said Kathleen, 'she's a little silly about that. She – I told her about the will, aunty – you don't mind? I didn't tell any one else' —

'It matters very little,' said Miss Clotilda. 'There is no secret about it. Everybody here knows the whole story. But what was your promise?'

'Phil had an idea that nobody had looked enough – for the will, or for the letter telling where it was to be found,' said Kathleen. 'She said she was sure she would think of new places to look in if she were here, and she made me promise to try. But – I am sure you have looked everywhere, aunty – it would seem impertinent of Neville and me to try to look.'

'Not that, my dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'but really and truly there is nowhere else to look. Do you know we have taken down and shaken every book in the library? A man, accustomed to such things, came on purpose. I have thought about the letter of directions too, but it is much less likely to be found than the will itself. It would be so small. If Mrs. Wynne had not given me the envelope containing the blank paper, so very shortly before her death, I should have begun to think that she had changed her mind and made no will at all. And yet – it was so unlike her. No, I feel sure the blank paper was put in by mistake.'

Miss Clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of the conversation. For a minute or two no one spoke. Then with a little effort Miss Clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present.

'She must be a very nice child – that little Philippa,' she said, 'and very unselfish. It is not many children who would be able to think of anything but their own affairs in her place just now. I do feel for her, poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.'

She hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came. Then she took up her darning again.

'I wish' – Kathie began, and then she too stopped short. Neville glanced at her.

'I believe I know what you wish,' he said. 'And,' he went on boldly, 'I believe aunty is thinking of the very same thing.'

Again the poor tablecloth came off badly. Miss Clotilda let it fall, and in her turn she looked at both the children.

'I daresay you do know what was in my mind, Neville,' she said. 'It would be almost unnatural not to think of it.'

'You mean,' said Kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor Phil to come here – if you could, I should say, aunty.'

'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda, 'that was what I was thinking. I do feel so for the poor dear child. I know so well, so sadly well, what it is to be alone in that way. My mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, died when I was thirteen, and till her death I had never been separated from her. And then I was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, for three years, for your grandfather went abroad. I did not even see my little brother – dear little David – for all that time, for one of our aunts who had children of her own took care of him. It did not so much matter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and so he was only four when we were together again. And it seems to him – I do like to feel that – that I was always with him. But for me those three years were – really – dreadful. Even now I can scarcely bear to think of them;' and Miss Clotilda gave a little shiver.

'Philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said Kathleen. 'She really did nothing but cry.

'And you were good to her – I am sure you were, as she is so fond of you,' said her aunt.

Kathie blushed a little.

'Her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and I tried to be because I promised. But I didn't care much for her at first, aunty. I didn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think me horrid, for I do understand better now – it bothered me. But she got so fond of me – she fancied I was so much kinder than I really was, that – that I got very fond of her. And I think I've learnt some things from her – the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.'

This was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtless Kathie. But both her hearers 'understood.'

'She must be a dear little girl,' said Miss Clotilda again. 'I should love to have her here, if – '

'I know, aunty,' Neville interrupted. 'It is the expense. I know it is already a great deal for you to have us.'

'No, dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'it really is not so. People – my old neighbours and friends – are so kind. They are always sending presents just now. And one other little girl could not make much difference. It is more a sort of shrinking that I have from explaining things to strangers – a sort of false shame, perhaps. It should all have been so different.'

'Dear aunty,' said both the children, 'we wouldn't like you to do it if you feel that way.'

But Miss Clotilda was evidently not satisfied.

'She is a simple-minded child, is she not?' she asked in a little. 'Not the kind of child to be discontented with plain ways – our having only one servant, and so on, you know?'

'Of course not,' said Kathleen. 'She would think it all lovely. And, aunty,' she went on, 'it is lovely. You don't know how it all looks to us after school. Everything is so cold and stiff, and – and – not pretty there. And the things to eat here are so delicious; aren't they, Neville? The fruit and the milk and the bread and butter. Oh, aunty!'

'What, my dear?'

'Don't you think you could? What room would Phil have?'

'I was thinking of the one next yours. It is small, but we could make it look nice. There is no dearth of anything in the way of linen and such things in the house. Mrs. Wynne had such beautiful napery – that is the old word for it, you know – and she took such a pride in it. I must show you the linen-room some day, Kathie. I have taken great pleasure in keeping it in perfect order for your mother.'