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 spécialité 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 glass 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," for she was not an uneducated woman by any means.
Laden with our treasures Haddie and I hurried home. There was mamma watching for us with the door open. How sweet it was to have her always to welcome us!
"Tea is quite ready, dears," she said. "Run upstairs quickly, Geraldine, and take off your things, they must be rather damp. I am going to have my real tea with you, for I have just had a note from your father to say he won't be in till late and I am not to wait for him."
Mamma sighed a little as she spoke. I felt sorry for her disappointment, but, selfishly speaking, we sometimes rather enjoyed the evenings father was late, for then mamma gave us her whole attention, as she was not able to do when he was at home. And though we were very fond of our father, we were – I especially, I think – much more afraid of him than of our mother.
And that was such a happy evening! I have never forgotten it. Mamma was so good and thoughtful for us, she did not let us find out in the least that she was feeling anxious on account of something father had said in his note to her. She was just perfectly sweet.
We were very proud of our spoils from Miss Fryer's. We wanted mamma to have one cheesecake and Haddie and I to divide the other between us. But mamma would not agree to that. She would only take a half, so that we had three-quarters each.
"Wasn't it kind of Miss Fryer, mamma?" I said.
"Very kind," said mamma. "I think she is really fond of children though she is so grave. She has not forgotten what it was to be a child herself."
Somehow her words brought back to my mind what old Mr. Cranston had said about his little grand-daughter.
"I suppose children are all rather like each other," I said. "Like about Haddie, and that little girl riding on the lions."
Haddie was not very pleased at my speaking of it; he was beginning to be afraid of seeming babyish.
"That was quite different," he said. "She was a baby and had to be held on. It was the fun of climbing up I cared for."
"She wasn't a baby," I said. "She's nine years old, he said she was – didn't he, mamma?"
"You are mixing two things together," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston was speaking first of his daughter long ago when she was a child, and then he was speaking of her daughter, little Myra Raby, who is now nine years old."
"Why did he say my 'poor' daughter?" I asked.
"Did you not hear the allusion to her death? Mrs. Raby died soon after little Myra was born. Mr. Raby married again – he is a clergyman not very far from Fernley – "
"A clergyman," exclaimed Haddie. He was more worldly-wise than I, thanks to being at school. "A clergyman, and he married a shopkeeper's daughter."
"There are very different kinds of shopkeepers, Haddie," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston is very rich, and his daughter was very well educated and very nice. Still, no doubt Mr. Raby was in a higher position than she, and both Mr. Cranston and his wife are very right-minded people, and never pretend to be more than they are. That is why I was so glad to hear that little Myra is coming to stay with them. I was afraid the second Mrs. Raby might have looked down upon them perhaps."
Haddie said no more about it. And though I listened to what mamma said, I don't think I quite took in the sense of it till a good while afterwards. It has often been like that with me in life. I have a curiously "retentive" memory, as it is called. Words and speeches remain in my mind like unread letters, till some day, quite unexpectedly, something reminds me of them, and I take them out, as it were, and find what they really meant.
But just now my only interest in little Myra Raby's history was a present one.
"Mamma," I said suddenly, "if she is a nice little girl like what her mamma was, mightn't I have her to come and see me and play with me? I have never had any little girl to play with, and it is so dull sometimes – the days that Haddie is late at school and when you are busy. Do say I may have her – I'm sure old Mr. Cranston would let her come, and then I might go and play with her sometimes perhaps. Do you think she will play among the furniture – where the lions are?"
Mamma shook her head.
"No, dear," she answered. "I am quite sure her grandmother would not like that. For you see anybody might come into the shop or show-rooms, and it would not seem nice for a little girl to be playing there – not nice for a carefully brought-up little girl, I mean."
"Then I don't think I should