IT was five o'clock in the afternoon. Miss Hunter, a tall, dignified-looking woman, was presiding at the afternoon tea-table in the drawing-room of ‘Chatts Chase.' Miss Amabel Hunter stood at the window in a rather muddy riding-habit, and she was speaking in her sharp, short tones to her twin sister Hester, who lay back in the depths of a large armchair, a novel open in her lap.
Sitting by the cheery wood fire was the youngest of the sisters, a frail and delicate invalid. She was turning her face anxiously towards the speaker, and now put in her word very gently.
We only thought, Amabel, that it would have comforted the poor children if you had returned with them in the brougham. An aunt would naturally have been more acceptable to them than a strange maid.'
But I tell you, Sibyl, they are with their own nurse, and Graham will be far more likely to put them all at ease than I should. They will hear that " Miss 'Unter is the missis, and lets every one know she is. Miss 'Ester keeps the maids on their legs all day long because she won't use hers. Miss H'Amabel does the sporting gent, and is never indoors except to meals; while Miss Sibyl—well, there, she is not much 'count in the fam'ly, for she can't say be to a goose, and doesn't mind how people put on her! " '
You saw the children, I suppose? ' questioned Miss Hunter gravely.
Of course I did. I rode down to the station for that express purpose. They are two skinny, puny little monkeys, enveloped in bundles of wraps. I packed them all up comfortably in the carriage, and rode on to tell you of their arrival. I don't seem to have done the right thing, as usual; but that is always the way. Here is the carriage lumbering up the drive. Now you had all better go out on the steps and overwhelm them with kisses and caresses. Only may I ask that they should be taken straight up to their nursery, and not brought in here? '
One would think, to hear you talk, that you hated children,' murmured Miss Sibyl; it is a good thing that Percy and his wife cannot hear you.'
Miss Hunter left the room at once, and curiosity drew Sibyl and Hester after her, to see the little nephew and niece who had been sent to them from India from their only brother.
The four Miss Hunters lived very comfortably together, though they were all, with the exception of Sibyl, rather self-willed, opinionated women. All of them being well over forty, and gray hairs plentiful between them, they had earned the distinction of being looked upon as old maids,' and some wag having one day obliterated the h' in Chatts Chase,' the house was now familiarly called Pussy's Chase.' This did not disturb the good ladies when it came to their ears, for they had large souls, a keen sense of humor, and too much interest in life to be fretted by village gossip.
They were now full of plans and purposes regarding the two small children about to be placed in their charge, and no two visitors could have caused more excitement and preparation in the quiet household than did this little couple from India.
Well,' asked Miss Amabel, as, after a great deal of bustle and talk in the hall, the sisters came back to the drawing-room, and what are your impressions of the kids? '
Poor little mites! ' said Miss Sibyl; they seem so very white and sickly in appearance, that we were quite astonished at the way they scampered upstairs. I am thankful they were sent back in charge of an English nurse. Those ayahs are always so unsatisfactory.'
Before many days the children astonished their aunts still more by their agility and ingenuity in mischief of all sorts. Roland, a fair, curly-haired little fellow of seven, led his smaller sister Olive into every kind of audacious escapade. Their spirits were unflagging, though at times their frail looking little bodies seemed to droop under their activity.
Miss Hunter came upon little Olive one afternoon sitting on the stairs in a breathless, exhausted state, and Roland was remonstrating with her.
You've only run up twenty-five times, Olive, and you're tired already; it's a mile race, and you must go on.'
She must do nothing of the sort, Roland,' said Miss Hunter sternly. I will not let you tear up and down stairs all day in this fashion. What do you mean by it? '
' We can't be idle, auntie,' said Roland, shaking his curls back and speaking with decision. ' Nurse has the toothache and won't take us out. Father says people can be idle very easily, and put it down to the climate, and " idle hands find mischief," he says, and father is never idle. If we don't run up and down stairs, where. can we run? We like the stairs best,, because we never have stairs in India.'
Send them into the garden, Marion,' called out Miss Amabel, from the garden door; I am going to the stables, and then I will look after them.'
Little Olive jumped up.
Oh, let us go out, auntie, and see the pretty flowers.'
You must be very good children then. Go quietly upstairs, and ask nurse to wrap you up well, as it is rather cold out.'
And then Miss Hunter, who found children rather a perplexing problem, walked back to her book and her fireside, and thought no more about them.
Roland and Olive danced out of doors a little time after, in delight at finding themselves unattended.
Now,' said Roland peremptorily, 'we're going for a walk, Olive, and you are not to get tired. And we'll go and find those big iron gates first of all; they're down this road.'
Down the avenue trotted the children; it was fully half a mile long, and the thick shrubberies on either side rather alarmed the little girl.
You're quite sure there isn't a tiger in the bushes? ' she asked repeatedly.
And Roland in superior tones replied,—'I've told you the English people caught all their tigers long ago, and put them in a garden in London. Father told me so.' And what's outside the big gates, Roly- a jungle? '
No, I think the trains are. I want to go and see them. Come on! '
They reached the gates, but found them shut, and as Roland was exerting all his strength to open them, an old man stepped out of the pretty little lodge close by.
Why, where be ye off to, little master?' he asked with a beaming smile. Isn't your nurse with you this afternoon? '
No; we're taking a walk. Open the gates, please.'
But this the old man did not seem willing to do.
Won't you come into my little parlor here, and pay me a visit? My niece, Jane, is away to market to-day, and I be very lonely. Old Bob has a lot of pretty things in his room.'
Roland hesitated, but when Olive with sparkling eyes ran in at the open door, he followed, saying,' We always like to pay visits, so if you're a good and nice man we'll come in. Mother only likes us to talk to very nice people; but I s'pose every one in England is nice, because they're white, and it's only the blacks that don't know better.'
The old man laughed, and his quaint, old-fashioned room, with a cheery fire and bright colored prints round the walls, delighted his little guests.
What are those ugly pots in your window without any flowers? ' asked Roland presently.
Old Bob gave a little sigh and a smile. Ah, you've hit upon my greatest treasures,' he said. You won't call them ugly pots when Easter comes.'
What is Easter? ' asked both the children.
' The happiest time in the whole year to me,' said Bob, shaking his head; but another day I'll tell you the tale of those pots—not to-day.'
' And have you got a garden? ' asked Roland eagerly. Olive and me love flowers, but England doesn't seem to have any out of doors.'
Come and see my garden,' said the old man proudly; it's the joy of my life, next to them there " ugly pots "! '
He led the way to the back of the house, where was a good-sized cottage garden; but the children's faces fell considerably when they saw the barren desolation, for Bob had no evergreen shrubs, and only some rows of cabbages and broccoli showed signs of life.
It's all brown earth and dead things—no flowers at all! ' they exclaimed.
But this is the wrong time o' year,' Bob said apologetically; there be heaps o' beautiful stuff all under the earth, awaitin' to come up in their time.'
But why don't you make them come up now? What's the good of a garden without flowers?. In India we have lovely flowers.'
' Winter is a-comin' on, my dears; you won't see my pretty flowers just yet. They're fast asleep bidin' their time; no frost or cold can touch 'em—bidin' their time! '
Bob's face looked wistful as he gazed at his empty flower beds.
What's winter? ' asked Olive curiously.
' Bless the little dear, has she never known a winter? "iris the dreary dark time of waitin', the sunless, joyless bit o' all the year, when the singin' birds fly away, the butterflies and flowers die, and the very trees sigh and moan in their bareness and decay. 'Tis an empty bit o' life, when all that makes life sweet falls to pieces and fades away.'
This was not quite intelligible to the children; but they shivered a little at the gloom in the old man's tone, and Olive's blue eyes filled with tears.
I don't want to stay here in winter,' she said; let's go back to India, Roly! '
Roland stood with knitted brows considering.
Who makes the winter? ' he asked. Does the devil? Because God only makes beautiful things, doesn't He? ' Old Bob raised his hat, and looked up into the gray autumnal sky with a smile. Nay, little master, the devil wouldn't have wished to give us such a lesson as winter teaches us. 'Tis God Almighty in His love that gives us winter, to try our faith and patience, and teach us hope's lessons. If we had no winter, we should have no Easter, and 'tis well worth the waitin' for! '
And does everything die in winter? ' asked Roland in a mournful voice.
His question was unanswered, for Miss Amabel appeared on the scene.
Oh, you children! ' she exclaimed, breathlessly. What a chase I have had after you! If I had known you were in such safe quarters, I would have spared myself the trouble of looking for you. Have they been here long, Bob? '
Nigh on a quarter o' an hour, Miss Amabel. They was for going out at the gate, but I 'ticed 'em into my place.'
Much obliged to you. Now, chicks, remember this, you're never to go outside those gates alone. Come back to the house with me, and say good-bye to Bob.'
Olive lifted up her little face to be kissed by the old man, and Roland held out his hand.
Good-bye, Mr. Bob. We will come and see you again, and you will tell us about your ugly pots.'
Then as they walked up the avenue by the side of their aunt, Roland said to her, pointing to the leafless trees above them,' We don't have ugly trees like that in India. Why don't you cut them all down? They're quite dead, aren't they? '
' No, indeed,' replied Miss Amabel briskly; ' they'll all come to life again next spring.'
' Is spring Easter that Mr. Bob was telling us about? '
' Yes, Easter comes in spring.'
' And does everything dead come to life in spring? '
' A good many things in the garden do,' said Miss Amabel carelessly.
' Why does God make winter in England, and not in India? Is He angry with the people in England? '
' Bless the boy! What a curiosity-box! Keep your questions for Aunt Sibyl—she will appreciate them. And as for winter, I couldn't do without it, for there would be no hunting then, and I should feel half my enjoyment gone in life.'
' Do you like winter, Aunt Am'bel? ' asked Olive.
' Yes, I love it; and so will you when you become hardy and rosy, like English boys and girls! '
The children looked very doubtful at this statement, but did not dispute it.
' We will always come and play here,' said Roland. Then, looking up at the old gardener, he said, -