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Veronica Eustacia and Rosalind Gladys, in white-lace frocks and lovely sashes, had just got in, and Guy Clarence, aged five, was following them.
It was fortunate matters at home demanded her thoughts. Plans for the winter, getting the boys off to school, and the many small cares of the housekeeper left little time for brooding. At the station Belle, in her eagerness to be the first to greet Rosalind, had to be dragged back out of harm's way by the baggage master, as the long train swept around the curve.
At home our banks are all on the street and have offices over them." "Yes; Friendship isn't a city," Maurice acknowledged apologetically. "I should like to live in a big city." "I like Friendship. It only seems a little odd, you know," Rosalind hastened to add. "Do they ever let you go into the bank part of your house?" "Why, of course, I can go in whenever I choose.
He was too thoroughly natural and healthy a lad to be much troubled with sentiment, but ever since one winter morning five years before, when Rosalind had first appeared in the little country church, she had been his ideal of all that was womanly and beautiful. At every meeting he discovered fresh charms, and to-day was no exception to the rule. She was taller, fairer, more elegant.
"I am not romantic myself like the girl who was doing Rosalind, but I'm not quite so blind as a bat is, and I came up with Major Campbell this afternoon." "Dear me!" Aunt Mary exclaimed with a laugh, "you are getting dreadfully grown-up, Mollie. I hope you don't that you don't think my dear old Hugh is really old, because he happens to have rather white hair.
The house behind the griffins was not exactly a cheerful place. Rosalind found herself stealing about on tiptoe lest she disturb the silence of the spacious rooms. She hardly ventured to more than peep into the drawing-room, where Miss Herbert's liking for twilight effects had full sway.
The signs of a lover's "careless desolation," described by Rosalind so minutely, can still be detected in modern youth of both sexes. I did not pursue the question, but alluded to autumn gaieties. She spoke of them without enthusiasm. Miss Somebody's wedding was very dull, and Mrs. Somebody Else's dance manned with vile and vacuous dancers. At the Opera the greatest of German sopranos sang false.
With her hand clasped in his he told her the story briefly, for even now he could not dwell upon it without pain, and as Rosalind listened she discovered that she had already heard a bit of it from Mrs. Parton and Mrs. Molesworth at the auction. "We must try, you and I, not to think too hardly of grandmamma now.
"The only story I know is about a magician and a tiger, Rosalind's calling Morgan 'the magician' reminded me of it." "I love magicians and tigers," Rosalind remarked. "Do you remember the picture I told you about, Maurice? Do tell it to us, Miss Celia." Celia wondered afterward how she could have done it, but now she thought of nothing but her desire to please the children, so she began:
Since his death she lived alone with only Sophy, her old mammy, to cook and care for her. When it became known that Miss Betty had invited certain of her young friends to tea to meet Rosalind Whittredge, a wave of excitement swept over Friendship.
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