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Sometimes they are so still you would think them asleep. Then they go laughing and skipping. Outside, in the oat field, they are always chasing each other. They are the wild shadows. The shadows in the orchard are the tame shadows. "Everything seems to be rather tired growing except the spruces and chrysanthemums in Aunt Olivia's garden.
Mrs. Foster gave me a slip of paper, on which were written a few lines. The words looked faint, and grew paler as I read them. They were without doubt Olivia's writing: "I know that, you are poor, and I send you all I can spare the ring you once gave to me. I am even poorer than yourself, but I have just enough for my last necessities. I forgive you, as I trust that God forgives me."
Mrs. Broderick nodded in a sympathising way she knew the joy of these small economies and contrivances; the little purse of savings had not been gathered together without some self-denial; but as she saw the lovely rainbow smile on Olivia's face, she felt that she had her reward. "This is my red-letter day," she said, quaintly; "it is always a red-letter day when I can really help someone.
Perhaps it was that aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story Girl a legend of elder days. "I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last night," she said. "It was called 'The Christmas Harp. Would you like to hear it? It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road." "There isn't anything about about ghosts in it, is there?" said Cecily timidly.
A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia's mind; and looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were unaltered. "Seulement retarde un peu," said Josephine, who was intent only upon her own selfish object.
"Mind you have some of her favourite rusks for her," he said. "I guess," said Felicity with dignity, "that Aunt Olivia's wedding supper will be good enough for even a Governor's wife." "I s'pose none of us except the Story Girl will get to the first table," said Felix, rather gloomily. "Never mind," comforted Felicity. "There's a whole turkey to be kept for us, and a freezerful of ice cream.
Gaythorne is," he said, quickly, "and it will never do to disappoint him; he might be a bit touchy. Barton will be all right, and I shall be in myself the greater part of the afternoon." And then Olivia's scruples vanished. She felt Marcus had been wise when she entered the library. Mr. Gaythorne was evidently expecting her; he had a large portfolio open before him.
The puzzle that she had begun to try to solve when Rebecca Mary's white, death-struck mother had laid her baby in Aunt Olivia's unaccustomed arms was getting a little more difficult every day. Some days Aunt Olivia wondered if she ought to give it up. Oh, this bringing up this bringing up of little children! "If I must," groaned Aunt Olivia, and got as far as taking the little diary in her hands.
Crampton says he is but poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message. After a brief delay she returned. Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell; but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library. For the first time she was not sure of her welcome. The grand old room looked unusually gloomy.
And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset or, rather, through the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention from those who had the gift of further sight. VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau
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