Into the very midst of them dashes old Brownie, Lettice’s curly retriever, scattering the little pensioners right and left with a heavy bark, intended, no doubt, for a ponderous “good morning.” “Down, Brownie, how dare you!” scolds Lettice, placing one little foot on old Brownie’s well-furred neck to enforce obedience. Then the crumb-scattering goes on for another ten minutes or so, Lettice amusing herself by making her feathered friends fly hither and thither for her favours, and throwing the last morsel at a chattering magpie, perched on the low bough of a mountain ash, who had somehow, so she judged, through timidity or cowardice, failed to secure for himself a proper portion.
Then she turns her basket upside down.
“They won’t believe it’s all gone, Brownie,” she says, releasing the dog, “till they see it bottom upwards.” The sunlight glances and quivers through the aspens and alders which skirt the lawn; behind them babbles and tumbles a narrow running brook, while the semicircle of the mountains in the distance forms a glorious background to the picture. The barndoor fowl cackles and flutters on to Lettice’s shoulder, and is very quickly fluttered off again with a reprimand from the young lady. Brownie released disperses the tiny feathered tribe in all directions, and finally starts off in full pursuit of a mischievous-looking squirrel, who, after a few bounds and gambols, ensconces himself in safety in a tall horse-chestnut, and curls up his tail in defiance at the dog’s vain efforts to dislodge him.
Lettice’s eyes sparkle with delight—some said those eyes of hers were blue, some said they were grey, some hazel; anyhow, they were large, and changeful, and brilliant—her pretty little mouth breaks into all sorts of pleasant smiles, and she nods her head at the blue hills now catching wonderful lights and shadows as the sun mounts higher in the heavens.
“Oh, you dear little kids and goats up there!” she exclaims; “I’ll have some of you down here before long.”
Of course she cannot see the “dear little kids and goats,” but she knows that halfway up the mountains there is fair pasturage for them, and no doubt at this very moment they are enjoying it, and she may just as well talk to them as to any other creature.
Then for a few minutes she stands still and enjoys the freshness and beauty of the morning scene. All around her the earth seems full of sunlight and colour and song, the tangled verdure on the lawn never seemed greener nor fresher; surely the little brook never babbled so prettily before, and those delicious lilacs and violets never before gave out so lovely a perfume. She stoops to gather a few hyacinths for her waistbelt; Brownie picks up the empty basket, and stands patiently waiting for further orders. Lettice gives one upward farewell look at the blue hills, and something of sadness and longing passes over her face.
“Yes, you dear old mountains,” she says aloud, “I have known and loved you a long time, but for all that I should like to see a little of what is going on on the other side of you.”
At this moment the sound of wheels is heard on the drive running round the house, as the coachman, throwing back the stable-door, brings out the pony-phaeton for the day.
Lettice bounds forward to pat her favourite ponies and rub their “dear little noses.” An elderly gentleman comes down the front steps, followed by two elderly ladies, one tall and stout and the other tall and thin. Both are dressed in the latest London fashion.
“Lettice, I am driving your aunts into the village; will you come?” inquires the gentleman.
The tall stout lady interposes—
“Not in that dress, may I beg, Lettice. Dear me! each time I pay you a visit here you seem to me to be more unsophisticated and untidy than before. Owen, Owen, that girl sadly wants pruning and training!”
Lettice flushes a little and laughs a little.
“I hadn’t the least intention of going into the village this morning, Aunt Rosamond,” she replies; “I have so very much to do.”
The tall thin lady, who is emotional in temperament and active in disposition, begins now.
“I suppose ‘so very much to do,’ Lettice, means dawdling about the whole morning with a paintbrush in your hand and spoiling two or three sheets of good cardboard.” Then as the fresh spring breeze catches Lettice’s brown hair, and the aforesaid brown hair, in response to a somewhat impatient toss of the head from the young girl, tumbles en masse to her waist, the lady exclaims, “I wonder—I wonder what would they say to you in a London drawing-room!”
Lettice finishes rubbing the pony’s nose.
“Dear old Fiddle!” she says, giving him a farewell pat. She goes to the other pony and repeats the operation, ending with a “Dear old Falstaff!” Then she looks up at her aunts. “Aunt Judith! Aunt Rosamond!” she exclaims, “I wish, instead of scolding me so much, you would take me back to London with you, and prune and train me there.” Here a start of surprise from papa. Lettice turns on him. “Yes, papa dear, I would really like to go up just for one short season and see what they would say to me in a London drawing-room. I wouldn’t stay a day after, and then I’d come back and settle down here forever and ever.”
Papa touches up Fiddle and Falstaff impatiently with his whip.
“Go in, pussy,” he says, “and don’t talk nonsense.”
Lettice throws him a kiss and a bright smile. Aunt Rosamond begins sotto voce, but has to raise her voice above the crunching of the wheels on the gravel and the ring of the ponies’
