It was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when Arthur
took them home with him to Montreal. A very dismal change it seemed to
them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone.
Home! Could it ever seem like home to them? Think of the dwellers
among the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in
a close city street. Graeme had said that if they could all keep
together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost
failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning.
Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with
these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only
roofs and chimneys. From the room above the view was the same, only the
roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between
them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a
Lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright
streak, which they came at last to know as Harry's grand river. On the
other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall,
over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. The brick
wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Rosie
thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. From Graeme's room
above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and
between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden.
It was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green grass
before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the
windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatory
at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the
sun shone on it--many panes of glass when the sun was gone. The garden
seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth
gravel walk with an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens and
horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful;
and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the
redeeming feature in their new home.
For it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for that
little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged
tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There was
nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and
close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street.
Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river,
seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at
least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at
other times.
How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights
and sounds and friends of Merleville.
"If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said
Rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees
and the sight of the garden."
For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and
hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingratitude to Arthur,
this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls
from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that
came upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured
by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of
it from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, they
had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. They
seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months.
Harry's hours were long, and Arthur's business was increasing so as to
require close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme,
who did not know that all Arthur's business was not strictly
professional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes
bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake.
Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and
tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things
from their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy--too
anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for
home-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made--when the
taste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new
maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and
pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long
days and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet had
predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away
from Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strength
failed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the
winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. She
did not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself in
the miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and
alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference to
everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only
aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days were
passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself to
their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All her
strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were
at home.
Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when
the time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded for
hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. For
though Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength,
the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their
little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at rest
as to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunate
chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival,
Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate
neatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back
upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness and
kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her
field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which
cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu'
at the making of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. If
it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of
her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in
her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her,
daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or
dinner without Graeme's special overlooking. She would walk miles to do
her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut
the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her
very best to help or cheer her.
But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exerted
herself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harry
was at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then she
could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as
the case might be. But when any effort was necessary--when she must
interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when
Arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme to
be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. She
might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable
night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow
hours exhausted yet sleepless.
Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she lay
helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that
rose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of
Carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking
on the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughs
whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her
heart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same.
If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what
she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the
loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this weariness
of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left
Merleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of _home_ she
thought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore.
She started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when
there was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that lay
so heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed.
Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must get
either better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur and
Harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed
them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the
sofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of
them failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almost
immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh.
"Graeme!" exclaimed Harry, "what ails you! Such a face! Look here, I
have something for you. Guess what."
"A letter," said Rose. "Oh! Graeme look!"
But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startled
and tried to raise her.
"Don't, Arthur," said Rose; "let her lie down. She will be better in a
little. Harry get some water."
Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme's
dress, but she knew well what to do.
"You don't mean that she has been like this before?" said Arthur, in
alarm.
"Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better,
now."
In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, she
said, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened
Arthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in the
doctor's hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her,
but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated her
assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and
weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and
spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur's face
quite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, and
when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,--
"Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it is
partly because Graeme is homesick."
"Homesick!" repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath.
"Perhaps not homesick exactly," said Rose, eagerly addressing her
brother. "She would not go back again you know; but everything is so
different--no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don't be
vexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here."
Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in
spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as
he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down,
too.
"Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry little
sister?"
"I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. She
does not think that I know."
"Know what?" asked Arthur.
"That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watched
her, and I know."
"Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said Arthur, anxiously.
But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter with
Graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something
to do with it; and then he added,--
"Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state
of weakness."
Arthur hesitated a moment.
"There was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister's
first, and then my father's. And then I brought the rest here."
It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he added with
an effort,--
"I fear I have not done well in bringing them. But they wished to come,
and I could not leave them."
"You did right, I have no doubt," said the doctor. "Your sister might
have been ill anywhere. She might have been worse without a change.
The thing is to make her well again--which, I trust, we can soon do--
with the help of Miss Rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse,
I am sure."
"Yes," said Rose, gravely. "I will try."
Arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust
and heat of the town.
"Yes," said the doctor. "The heat is bad. But it will not last long
now, and on the whole, I think she is better where she is, at present.
There is no danger. She will soon be as well as usual, I think."
But it was not very soon. Indeed, it was a long time before Graeme was
as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered
and grey, and the summer had quite gone. Not until kind Doctor
McCulloch had come almost daily for many weeks--long enough for him to
become much interested in both patient and nurse.
A wonderful nurse Rose proved herself to be. At first something was
said about introducing a more experienced person into Graeme's chamber,
but both Rose and Nelly Anderson objected so decidedly to this, and
aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it,
that the design was given up on condition that Rosie kept well and
cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. She kept cheerful,
but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like
herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected
during the day, Rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while
the other stayed with Graeme, and by this means the health and spirits
of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. For
indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who
had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and
who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the
rest depended upon her. But she bore the trial well, and indeed came to
the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be
trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played
with by her brothers. She quite liked the sense of responsibility,
especially when Graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired
very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that
this time did Rose no harm, but a great deal of good.
As for Nelly Anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a
most extraordinary manner--not as a nurse, however. Her efforts in that
line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her
stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to Graeme not to lose heart.
But in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment
of the household, and her own most of all. When Arthur had peremptorily
forbidden that any reference should be made to Graeme in household
matters, Nelly had helplessly betaken herself to Rose, and Rose had as
helplessly betaken herself to "Catherine Beecher." Nothing short of the
state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced
Nelly to put faith in a "printed book," in any matter where the labour
of her hands was concerned. But her accomplishments as a cook did not
extend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes," and more
was required. So with fear and trembling, Rose and she "laid their
heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexperienced
housekeepers, and the result was success--indeed a series of successes.
For emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, Nelly want
on and prospered; and Rose, content that she should have all the honour
of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also.
Almost every morning Rose had a walk, either with Harry to his office,
or with Will, to the school, while Arthur stayed with Graeme. The walk
was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and
it was always a merry time if Harry was with her, and then she was ready
for her long day at home. She sometimes lingered on the way back. On
the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she
was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their
play. She used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been
replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man
will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of
their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. And
whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. She was in
danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of
exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far
as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober
moments she would have considered advisable.
One bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing
before the large house on the other side of the street. For the first
time she found the large gate wide open. There was no one in sight, and
taking two steps forward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within than
she had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk round the
smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always
prevented her. This time she did not wait for second thoughts, but
deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave
asked or given.
The garden belonged to Mr Elphinstone, a great man--at least a great
merchant in the eyes of the world. One of Rose's amusements during the
time she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comings
and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than Rose
herself. Sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove
herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking
coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. Rosie used to
envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering
the flowers at her own will.
"How happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her.
"If she is a nice young lady, as I am almost sure she is, she would
rather that I enjoyed her flowers than not. At any rate I am going to
walk round just once--and then go."
But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It was not a
very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and Rosie passed
slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented
itself. It took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was
accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower,
that grow within the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger.
She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and
as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her--
"You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now."
Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse,
prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was an
intruder.
"If you'll come, round this way I'll show you flowers that are worth
looking at," said he.
"He thinks I am a visitor," said Rose to herself. "I'm sure I admire
his flowers as much as any of them can do. It won't trouble him much to
show them to me, and I'll just go with him."
So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him,
a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She did
not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor
hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving
her time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed,
where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to
arrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! What
verbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! Rose could
only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was
evidently well pleased with her delight.
At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But she
thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added
deprecatingly--
"I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came in. I couldn't
help it."
It was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at
the great house or not.
"You ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can
be said of some of the visitors here."
He led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered
with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever Rose had seen before.
"It was just like what a bower ought to be," she told Graeme,
afterwards. "It was just like a lady's bower in a book."
There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close
by grew a great many flowers. Not rare flowers, such as she had just
been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet
peas and mignonette. It was Miss Elphinstone's own bower, the gardener
said, and these were her favourite flowers. Rose bent over a pale
little blossom near the path--
"What is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it
spoiled by some long unpronounceable name.
"Surely you have seen that--and you from Scotland? That's a gowan."
"A gowan!" She was on her knees beside it in a moment. "Is it the real
gowan, `that glints on bank and brae'? No, I never saw one; at least I
don't remember. I was only a child when I came away. Oh! how Graeme
would like to see them. And I must tell Janet. A real gowan! `Wee,
modest, crimson-tipped flower'--you mind? And here is a white one,
`With silver crest and golden eye.' Oh! if Graeme could only see them!
Give me just one for my sister who is ill. She has gathered them on the
braes at home."
"Ahem! I don't know," said her friend, in a changed voice. "These are
Miss Elphinstone's own flowers. I wouldna just like to meddle with
them. But you can ask her yourself."
Rose turned. The pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing
beside her. Rose's confusion was too deep for words. She felt for a
minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and
murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not
wishing to intrude. The young lady's answer was to stoop down and
gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette.
When she gave them into Rose's hand she asked,--
"Is your sister very ill? I have seen the doctor going often to your
house."
"She is getting better now. She has been very ill. The doctor says she
will soon be well."
"And have you taken care of her all the time? Is there no one else?"
"I have taken care of her, Nelly Anderson and I, all the day, and our
brothers are home at night."
"I am glad she is getting better. Is she fond of flowers. Mr Stirling
is thinking I haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you
put them in water, you know."
"Oh! thank you. They are beautiful. Yes, Graeme is very fond of
flowers. This will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the
country, I mean. And besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at
home."
"I am a Canadian," said the young lady. "I never saw the `gowany
braes,' but I shall see them soon."
They had reached the gate by this time.
"Come again, soon. Come into the garden, whenever you like. I am sure
Mr Stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them.
I think a few of his would improve your bouquet."
Mr Stirling touched his hat to his young lady.
"I shall be proud to show the flowers to Miss Rose, and I shall have the
honour of making her a bouquet soon." The young lady laughed.
"You are to be a favourite. Is your name Rose," added she, lingering by
the gate.
"Yes, Rose Elliott. I am the youngest. We all live over there, my
brothers, and Graeme and I. It would be a dreary place, if it were not
for the glimpse we get of your garden. Look, there is Nelly looking for
me. I am afraid I have hindered Arthur. Thank you very much, and
good-bye."
Rose shyly put forth her hand. The young lady took it in both hers, and
drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go.
"Stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you know
the young lady's name is Rose? is she a friend of yours? Do you know
her?"
"I know her face, that is all I have seen her for hours together,
looking in on the garden from that upper window. And whiles she looks
through the gate. I heard her brothers calling her Rose. She's a bonny
lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it."
That night, Nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her
thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into Graeme's room,
where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man,
"maybe a gentleman," Nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his
compliments to Miss Rose Elliott. A bouquet! it would have won the
prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while
the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. Even when the
autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and
afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty
garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little
parlour, where by that time Graeme was able to appear.
"For," said Mr Stirling, to the admiring Nelly, "such were Miss
Elphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directions
or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real
pleasure in their beauty."
The autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. As Graeme grew strong,
she grew content. The children were well and happy, and Arthur's
business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways
and means, might be put aside for the present. They often heard from
Norman, and from their friends in Merleville, and Graeme felt that with
so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to
be otherwise.
In the spring, they removed to another house. It was in town, but
compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the
country. For the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the
middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the
transforming hands of Rose and her brothers. There was a green field
behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible
from it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place,
where there was not a house to be seen. The house itself, seemed like a
palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. It was larger
than they needed, Graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they
could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with
everything else. It was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them
all, and a never failing source of delight besides. Their new home was
quite away from Mr Stirling's end of town, but he found time to come
and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and
seeds, and good advice were invaluable.
This was a short and pleasant summer to them all. It is wonderful how
much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by
young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. To Will and
Rosie everything was delightful. The early marketing with Nelly, to
which Graeme and Arthur, and sometimes even Harry was beguiled, never
lost its charm for them. Harry had lived in town, long enough, to
permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest
took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and
other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over Rosie's
penchant for making acquaintance with the old French woman and little
children whom they met. He mystified Rose and her friends by his free
interpretation of both French and English, and made the rest merry too;
so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to
rise early enough to go with them.
Sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a
pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would
return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of Nelly
and Miss Beecher. Sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the
whole family, Nelly and all, at Lachine or the Back River, or on the top
of the mountain. All this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the
habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help
of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the Elliotts were able to
find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times.
They had pleasures of another kind, too. Arthur's temporary connection
with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and
a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts,
and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one
or other of them.
They had not many acquaintances at this time. In Janet's estimation,
the averseness of Graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had
been a serious defect in her character. It was easier to avoid this in
the town than it used to be in the country, Graeme found. Besides, she
had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister's
daughter, and was inclined for quietness. Once or twice she made a
great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" of
the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great
deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she
compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being
very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a
lane near their house, and stayed at home. She was by no means sure
that she did right. For everybody knows, or ought to know, how
praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon
every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the
netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of
curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments
for those who have none. But then, though the "sewing-circle" is the
generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and
efforts of those dear ladies who _love to do good_, but who are apt to
be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in
garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just
possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. One
thing is certain, though Graeme did not find it easy for a while to
satisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept her
at home, the little Finlays were all the happier and better for the time
she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs.
They made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too.
Arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, a
friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or
lawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in
the city made him wish to show kindness. There were two or three gay
French lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great
liking to the grave and steady Arthur, and who often came to pass an
evening at his pleasant fireside. Graeme was shy of them for a while,
not being clear as to the principles and practice of the French as a
people, and as for Rose, the very sight of these polite moustached
gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all
comfortable to think about. But those light-hearted Canadian lads soon
proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though English had been
their mother tongue. Very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice
gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better
subjects for the exercise of Rosie's French than the old market women
were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly
welcomed.
This was a busy time, too. Graeme taught Rosie English, and they
studied together French and German, and music; and were in a fair way,
Harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. Very
busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater
importance. And if sometimes it came into Graeme's mind that the life
they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her
unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their
lot should make them forgetful of life's true end.