Indian Summer

all crying last night because Mr. Colville was going away, and now, when he’s going to stay, it’s just as bad. I don’t think you make it very pleasant for him. I should think he would be perfectly puzzled by it, after he’s done so much to please you all. I don’t believe he thinks it’s very polite. I suppose it is polite, but it doesn’t seem so. And he’s always so cheerful and nice. I should think he would want to visit in some family where there was more amusement. There used to be plenty in this family, but now it’s as dismal! The first of the winter you and mamma used to be so pleasant when he came, and would try everything to amuse him, and would let me come in to get some of the good of it; but now you seem to fly every way as soon as he comes in sight of the house, and I’m poked off in holes and corners before he can open his lips. And I’ve borne it about as long as I can. I would rather be back in Vevay. Or anywhere.” At this point her own pathos overwhelmed her, and the tears rolling down her cheeks moistened the crumbs of pastry at the corners of her pretty mouth. “What was so strange, I should like to know, about his staying, that mamma should pop up like a ghost, when I told her he had come home with us, and grab me by the wrist, and twitch me about, and ask me all sorts of questions I couldn’t answer, and frighten me almost to death? I haven’t got over it yet. And I don’t think it’s very nice. It used to be a very polite family, and pleasant with each other, and always having something agreeable going on in it; but if it keeps on very much longer in this way, I shall think the Bowens are beginning to lose their good-breeding. I suppose that if Mr. Colville were to go down on his knees to mamma and ask her to let him take me somewhere now, she wouldn’t do it.” She pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, and dried her eyes on a ball of it. “I don’t see what you’ve been crying about, Imogene. You’ve got nothing to worry you.”

“I’m not very well, Effie,” returned the girl gently. “I haven’t been well all day.”

“It seems to me that nobody is well any more. I don’t believe Florence is a very healthy place. Or at least this house isn’t. I think it must be the drainage. If we keep on, I suppose we shall all have diphtheria. Don’t you, Imogene?”

“Yes,” asserted the girl distractedly.

“The girls had it at Vevay frightfully. And none of them were as strong afterward. Some of the parents came and took them away; but Madame Schebres never let mamma know. Do you think that was right?”

“No; it was very wrong.”

“I suppose Mr. Colville will have it if we do. That is, if he keeps coming here. Is he coming any more?”

“Yes; he’s coming tomorrow morning.”

“Is he?” A smile flickered over the rueful face. “What time is he coming?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Imogene, listlessly stirring her coffee. “Some time in the forenoon.”

“Do you suppose he’s going to take us anywhere?”

“Yes⁠—I think so. I can’t tell exactly.”

“If he asks me to go somewhere, will you tease mamma? She always lets you, Imogene, and it seems sometimes as if she just took a pleasure in denying me.”

“You mustn’t talk so of your mother, Effie.”

“No; I wouldn’t to everybody. I know that she means for the best; but I don’t believe she understands how much I suffer when she won’t let me go with Mr. Colville. Don’t you think he’s about the nicest gentleman we know, Imogene?”

“Yes; he’s very kind.”

“And I think he’s handsome. A good many people would consider him old-looking, and of course he isn’t so young as Mr. Morton was, or the Inglehart boys; but that makes him all the easier to get along with. And his being just a little fat, that way, seems to suit so well with his character.” The smiles were now playing across the child’s face, and her eyes sparkling. “I think Mr. Colville would make a good Saint Nicholas⁠—the kind they have going down chimneys in America. I’m going to tell him, for the next veglione. It would be such a nice surprise.”

“No, better not tell him that,” suggested Imogene.

“Do you think he wouldn’t like it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it would become him. How old do you suppose he is, Imogene? Seventy-five?”

“What an idea!” cried the girl fiercely. “He’s forty-one.”

“I didn’t know they had those little jiggering lines at the corners of their eyes so quick. But forty-one is pretty old, isn’t it? Is Mr. Waters⁠—”

“Effie,” said her mother’s voice at the door behind her, “will you ring for Giovanni, and tell him to bring me a cup of coffee in here?” She spoke from the portiere of the salotto.

“Yes, mamma. I’ll bring it to you myself.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Bowen called from within.

The little girl softly pressed her hands together. “I hope she’ll let me stay up! I feel so excited, and I hate to lie and think so long before I get to sleep. Couldn’t you just hint a little to her that I might stay up? It’s Sunday night.”

“I can’t, Effie,” said Imogene. “I oughtn’t to interfere with any of your mother’s rules.”

The child sighed submissively and took the coffee that Giovanni brought to her. She and Imogene went into the salotto together. Mrs. Bowen was at her writing-desk. “You can bring the coffee here, Effie,” she said.

“Must I go to bed at once, mamma?” asked the child, setting the cup carefully down.

The mother looked distractedly up from her writing. “No; you may sit up a while,” she said, looking back to her writing.

“How long, mamma?” pleaded the little girl.

“Oh, till you’re