is a kind of truth in them, for the sun and moon, and the stars too, have to do with all of us people living on this earth; indeed, we owe everything to the sun; and so it is not altogether fancy to think of him, great big kind thing that he is, as a wonderful friend, and of the little gentle moon as taking his place, as it were, when he is at work on the other side. And the curious, mingled sort of light in the room, faint and dreamy, though clear too, made me think to myself, 'The sun is saying, "How do you do?" and the moon, "Good-bye."'
But I soon shut my drowsy eyes again, though not to fall asleep again at once. On the contrary, I grew awaker and awaker, as I began to feel that my mind or memory or brain – I don't know which to call it – had something to tell me.
What was it?
I seemed almost to be listening. And gradually it came to me – the knowledge of the idea that had been working itself out during my sleep from the thoughts that had been there jumbled up together the day before. And when I got clear hold of what it was, I nearly called out, I felt so struck and startled at first, just as if some one had said it to me, though with astonishing quickness it spread itself out before me as a really possible and even sensible plan, with nothing dreamy or fanciful about it.
It was this.
'Why should not we all – mamma, that is to say, and we four children – why should we not live altogether at the hut during the year, or more perhaps, that papa would have to be away?'
It may seem to those who read this story – if ever there are readers of it – a wild idea that had thus come to me. But 'the proof of the pudding is in the eating,' as Hoskins is fond of saying. So please wait a little before you judge.
And no sooner had the idea got into words than all the bits of it began to place themselves in order like the pieces of a dissected puzzle-map, or, still better, like the many-coloured skeins of silk in the pretty fairy story where the touch of the wand made them all arrange themselves. Still more – no sooner had the first vague thoughts settled down than others came to join them, each finding its own corner in the building that I began to see was not a castle in the air but a good solid piece of work.
It would be so healthy and airy, and yet not damp; nor, with proper care, need it be very cold, even in winter. It would be near enough to Kirke for Geordie to go on with his lessons with Mr. Lloyd, and for us to feel we had old friends close at hand, who would understand all about us, and very likely be kinder than ever. It would be near enough to home – dear Eastercove – indeed, it would be Eastercove – for us to take lots of furniture and things from the house to furnish as much more as was needed and to make it comfortable and even pretty, without emptying Eastercove house at all. There was, as I have said, such a lot of stored-away extra furniture and old carpets and curtains and blankets and all sorts of things up in the great attic, and Hoskins kept them all so nice and tidy, and without moths or mildew or horrible things like that, that it was quite a pleasure to go up there sometimes. It was like a very neat shop for second-hand things, which is more than can be said for most box-rooms or lumber-rooms, I fancy.
And the moving these things would be no expense, and there would be no travelling expenses for any of us, and – the last idea that came into my head was the best of all. The old parish room! The iron room that Mr. Lloyd had told papa about the afternoon before! They wanted to get rid of it and would sell it for almost nothing. Even if 'almost nothing' meant – I could not guess how much or how little – a few pounds, perhaps – it would be far, far less than the rent of a house, however small, and it would make into two or even three little rooms, easily. Perhaps it would be enough just to divide it by screens or curtains, perhaps —
Oh, the 'perhapses' that came crowding into my head when I had thought of the old parish room! I could scarcely lie still another minute – I felt in such a desperate hurry to tell Geordie of the wonderful thought that had come to me. But it was still far from getting-up time; I knew it would be very selfish and unkind to wake up poor old Dods in what would seem to him the middle of the night, for he was a very sound sleeper, and had hard enough work to get his eyes properly open by seven o'clock.
No – there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as I could. It would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger and changing; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thin moonshine gave place to the sun, even then
warmer somehow in its tone than the fullest moon-rays ever are.
'Yes,' I thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, I should think. I wonder – if – '
Strange to say, I cannot finish the sentence, for I don't know what I was going to wonder! In spite of all my eagerness and excitement I knew nothing more, till – the usual summons, in Hoskins's voice —
'Miss Ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. You were sleeping soundly – I could scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. But it's Sunday morning, and you know it doesn't do to be late – and a beautiful spring morning too as ever was seen.'
I could scarcely believe my ears.
'Oh, Hoskins!' I exclaimed, 'I am sleepy. I was awake a good bit quite early, and I had no idea I had gone off again. I was so awake, thinking.'
The talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking' came back to me, so that by the time I was dressed, even though Sunday morning dressing needed a little more care and attention than every day's, I had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, for Geordie's cool inspection.
To my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of getting up promptly and being down the first after me, instead of, as often happened, the last after everybody.
'Geordie,' I exclaimed, when I caught sight of him standing at the dining-room window, staring out – or perhaps I should say' gazing,' for staring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking so particularly pretty – 'Geordie, I am just bursting to talk to you. Is it any use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?'
Geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
'Yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. Is it anything particular?'
'Of course it is,' I replied, 'or I wouldn't say I was bursting to tell it you. And I think and hope it is something that will please you very much. You are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense," before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.'
I saw he already was looking interested, and I was glad of it. His face had been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and I well knew why. I can almost always understand Geordie and very often guess what he is thinking of. He has such dear blue eyes, but they are the kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. I do hope he will have a happy life when he grows up – I am pretty sure he will deserve it. Even now that he has been a good long while at school – big public school, I mean – he is just the same to me as ever. When he comes home for the holidays it seems as if he had never been away.
'I won't interrupt you – or say "nonsense," if I can help it,' he answered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes.
Then I told him. I need not repeat all I said, as I have written a lot of it already. But it must have been rather hard for Geordie not to interrupt me. It all bubbled out so fast – all the splendid ideas and good reasons and perhapses – one on the top of the other, so that if he hadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely have understood. It was quite interesting and exciting, as I went on, to watch the expression in his face – his cheeks grew pink, then crimson, and his eyes brighter and brighter. I soon saw I was not going to be snubbed.
But real want of breath,
