Part 2 (1/2)

”She is very well, madam, I thank you,” he replied. ”And I am pleased to say that she is coming to stay with us shortly. We hope to keep her through the winter. Her stepmother is very kind, but with little children of her own, it is not always easy for her to give as much attention as she would like to Myra, and she and Mr. Raby have responded cordially to our invitation.”

”I am very glad to hear it--very glad indeed,” said mamma. ”I know what a pleasure it will be to you and Mrs. Cranston. Let me see--how old is the little girl now--seven, eight?”

”_Nine_, madam, getting on for ten indeed,” said Mr. Cranston with pride.

”Dear me,” said mamma, ”how time pa.s.ses! I remember seeing her when she was a baby--before we came to live here, of course, once when I was staying at Fernley, just after----”

Mamma stopped and hesitated.

”Just after her poor mother died--yes, madam,” said the old man quietly.

And then we left, Mr. Cranston respectfully holding the door open.

It was growing quite dark; the street-lamps were lighted and their gleam was reflected on the pavement, for it had been raining and was still quite wet underfoot. Mamma looked round her.

”You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie,” she said. ”It may rain again. No, Geraldine dear, there is no use opening your umbrella till it does rain.”

My feelings were divided between pride in my umbrella and some reluctance to have it wet! I took hold of mamma's arm again, while Haddie walked at her other side. It was not a very cheerful prospect before us--the gloomy dirty streets of Mexington were now muddy and sloppy as well--though on the whole I don't know but that they looked rather more cheerful by gaslight than in the day. It was chilly too, for the season was now very late autumn, if not winter. But little did we care--I don't think there could have been found anywhere two happier children than my brother and I that dull rainy evening as we trotted along beside our mother. There was the feeling of _her_ to take care of us, of our cheerful home waiting for us, with a bright fire and the tea-table all spread. If I had not been a little tired--for we had walked a good way--in my heart I was just as ready to skip along on the tips of my toes as when we first came out.

”We may stop at Miss Fryer's, mayn't we, mamma?” said Haddie.

”Well, yes, I suppose I promised you something for tea,” mamma replied.

”How much may we spend?” he asked. ”Sixpence--do say sixpence, and then we can get enough for you to have tea with us too.”

”Haddie,” I said reproachfully, ”as if we wouldn't give mamma something however little we had!”

”We'd offer it her of course, but you know she wouldn't take it,” he replied. ”So it's much better to have really enough for all.”

His way of speaking made mamma laugh again.

”Then I suppose it must be sixpence,” she said, ”and here we are at Miss Fryer's. Shall we walk on, my little girl, I think you must be tired, and let Haddie invest in cakes and run after us?”

”Oh no, please mamma, dear,” I said, ”I like so to choose too.”

Half the pleasure of the sixpence would have been gone if Haddie and I had not spent it together.

”Then I will go on,” said mamma, ”and you two can come after me together.”

She took out her purse and gave my brother the promised money, and then with a smile on her dear face--I can see her now as she stood in the light of the street-lamp just at the old Quakeress's door--she nodded to us and turned to go.

I remember exactly what we bought, partly, perhaps, because it was our usual choice. We used to think it over a good deal first and each would suggest something different, but in the end we nearly always came back to the old plan for the outlay of our sixpence, namely, half-penny crumpets for threepence--that meant _seven_, not six; it was the received custom to give seven for threepence--and half-penny Bath buns for the other threepence--seven of them too, of course. And _Bath_ buns, not plain ones. You cannot get these now--not at least in any place where I have lived of late years. And I am not sure but that even at Mexington they were a _specialite_ of dear old Miss Fryer's. They were so good; indeed, everything she sold was thoroughly good of its kind.

She was so honest, using the best materials for all she made.

That evening she stood with her usual gentle gravity while we discussed what we should have, and when after discarding sponge-cakes and finger-biscuits, which we had thought of ”for a change,” and partly because finger-biscuits weighed light and made a good show, we came round at last to the seven crumpets and seven buns, she listened as seriously and put them up in their little paper bags with as much interest as though the ceremony had never been gone through before. And then just as we were turning to leave, she lifted up a gla.s.s shade and drew out two cheese-cakes, which she proceeded to put into another paper bag.

Haddie and I looked at each other. This was a lovely present. What a tea we should have!

”I think thee will find these good,” she said with a smile, ”and I hope thy dear mother will not think them too rich for thee and thy brother.”

She put them into my hand, and of course we thanked her heartily. I have often wondered why she never said, ”thou wilt,” but always ”thee will,”