‘Aunt Ethel,’ said little Richard, with instant recognition; ‘mamma said you would be like her, but I don’t think you will.’
‘Nor I, Dickie, but we’ll try. And who’s that!’
‘Yes, what am I to be like?’ asked Gertrude.
‘You’re not Aunt Daisy—Aunt Daisy is a little girl.’
Gertrude made him the lowest of curtseys; for not to be taken for a little girl was the compliment she esteemed above all others. Dickie’s next speech was, ‘And is that Uncle Aubrey?’
‘No, that’s Leonard.’
Dickie shook hands with him very prettily; but then returning upon Ethel, observed, ‘I thought it was Uncle Aubrey, because soldiers always cut their hair so close.’
The other guest was so thoroughly a colonist, and had so little idea of anything but primitive hospitality, that he had had no notion of writing beforehand to announce his coming, and accident had delayed the letters by which Norman and Meta had announced their decision of sending home their eldest boy under his care.
‘Papa had no time to teach me alone,’ said Dickie, who seemed to have been taken into the family councils; ‘and mamma is always busy, and I wasn’t getting any good with some of the boys that come to school to papa.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Dickie!’ said the Doctor, full of suppressed laughter.
‘It is quite true,’ said Mr. Seaford; ‘there are some boys that the archdeacon feels bound to educate, but who are not desirable companions for his son.’
‘It is a great sacrifice,’ remarked the young gentleman.
‘Oh, Dickie, Dickie,’ cried Gertrude, in fits, ‘don’t you be a prig—’
‘Mamma said it,’ defiantly answered Dickie.
‘Only a parrot,’ said Ethel, behind her handkerchief; but Dickie, who heard whatever he was not meant to hear, answered—
‘It is not a parrot, it is a white cockatoo, that the chief of (something unutterable) brought down on his wrist like a hawk to the mission-ship; and that mamma sent as a present to Uncle George.’
‘I prefer the parrot that has fallen to my share,’ observed the Doctor.
It was by this time perched beside him, looking perfectly at ease and thoroughly at home. There was something very amusing in the aspect of the little man; he so completely recalled his mother’s humming-bird title by the perfect look of finished porcelain perfection that even a journey from the Antipodes with only gentleman nursemaids had not destroyed. The ringleted rich brown hair shone like glossy silk, the cheeks were like painting, the trim well-made legs and small hands and feet looked dainty and fairy-like, yet not at all effeminate; hands and face were a healthy brown, and contrasted with the little white collar, the set of which made Ethel exclaim, ‘Just look, Daisy, that’s what I always told you about Meta’s doings. Only I can’t understand it.—Dickie, have the fairies kept you in repair ever since mamma dressed you last?’
‘We haven’t any fairies in New Zealand,’ he replied; ‘and mamma never dressed me since I was a baby!’
‘And what are you now?’ said the Doctor.
‘I am eight years old,’ said this piece of independence, perfectly well mannered, and au fait in all the customs of the tea-table; and when the meal was over, he confidentially said to his aunt, ‘Shall I come and help you wash up? I never break anything.’
Ethel declined this kind offer; but he hung on her hand and asked if he might go and see the schoolroom, where papa and Uncle Harry used to blow soap-bubbles. She lighted a candle, and the little gentleman showed himself minutely acquainted with the whole geography of the house, knew all the rooms and the pictures, and where everything had happened, even to adventures that Ethel had forgotten.
‘It is of no use to say there are no fairies in New Zealand,’ said Dr. May, taking him on his knee, and looking into the blue depths of Norman’s eyes. ‘You have been head-waiter to Queen Mab, and perpetually here when she made you put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes.’
‘Papa read that to the boys, and they said it was stupid and no use,’ said Dickie; ‘but papa said that the electric telegraph would do it.’
The little cavalier appeared not to know what it was to be at a loss for an answer, and the joint letter from his parents explained that his precocious quickness was one of their causes for sending him home. He was so deft and useful as to be important in the household, and necessarily always living with his father and mother, he took constant part in their conversation, and was far more learned in things than in books. In the place where they were settled, trustworthy boy society was unattainable, and they had felt their little son, in danger of being spoilt and made forward from his very goodness and brightness—wrote Meta, ‘If you find him a forward imp, recollect it is my fault for having depended so much on him.’
His escort was a specimen of the work Norman had done, not actual mission-work, but preparation and inspiriting of those who went forth on the actual task. He was a simple-minded, single-hearted man, one of the first pupils in Norman’s college, and the one who had most fully imbibed his spirit. He had been for some years a clergyman, and latterly had each winter joined the mission voyage among the Melanesian Isles, returning to their homes the lads brought for the summer for education to the mission college in New Zealand, and spending some time at a station upon one or other of the islands. He had come back from the last voyage much out of health, and had been for weeks nursed by Meta, until a long rest having been declared necessary, he had been sent to England as the only place where he would not be tempted to work, and was to visit his only remaining relation, a sister, who had married an officer and was in Ireland. He was burning to go back again, and eagerly explained—sagely corroborated by the testimony of the tiny archdeacon—that his illness was to be laid to the blame of his own imprudence, not to the climate; and he dwelt upon the delights of the yearly voyage among the lovely islands, beautiful beyond imagination, fenced in by coral breakwaters, within which the limpid water displayed exquisite sea-flowers, shells, and fishes of magical gorgeousness of hue; of the brilliant white beach, fringing the glorious vegetation, cocoa-nut, bread-fruit, banana, and banyan, growing on the sloping sides of volcanic rocks; of mysterious red-glowing volcano lights seen far out at sea at night, of glades opening to show high-roofed huts covered with mats: of canoes decorated with the shining white shells resembling a poached egg; of natives clustering round, eager and excited, seldom otherwise than friendly; though in hitherto unvisited places, or in those
