Macrae to take care of him.’ Then as Fergus began to pucker his face, she added, ‘I am really very sorry to be so disagreeable.’
‘The children must not be unreasonable,’ said Gillian sagely, as she came up.
‘And I am to choose between Xerxes and Artaxerxes, is it?’ said Aunt Jane.
‘No, the Sofy,’ said Mysie. ‘A Sofy is a Persian philosopher, and this kitten has got the wisest face.’
‘Run and fetch them,’ suggested her aunt, ‘and then we can choose. Oh,’ she added, with some relief at the thought, ‘if it is an object to dispose of Cockie, we could manage him.’
The two younger ones were gratified, but Gillian and Mysie both exclaimed that Cockie’s exclusive affections were devoted to Macrae, and that they could not answer for his temper under the separation. To break up such a household was decidedly the Goose, Fox, and Cabbage problem. As Mysie observed, in the course of the search for the kittens, in the make-the-best-of-it tone, ‘It was not so bad as the former moves, when they were leaving a place for good and all.’
‘Ah, but no place was ever so good as this,’ said poor Valetta.
‘Don’t be such a little donkey,’ said Fergus consequentially. ‘Don’t you know we are going to school, and I am three years younger than Wilfred was?’
‘It is only a petticoat school,’ said Val, ‘kept by ladies.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘It is; I heard Harry say so.’
‘And yours is all butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.’
On which they fell on each other, each with a howl of defiance. Fergus grabbed at Val’s pigtail, and she was buffeting him vehemently when Harry came out, held them apart, and demanded if this were the way to make their mother easy in leaving them.
‘She said it was a pet-pet-petticoat school,’ sobbed Fergus.
‘And so it ought to be, for boys that fight with girls.’
‘And he said mine was all butchers and bakers and candlestick makers,’ whined Valetta.
‘Then you’d better learn manners, or they’ll take you for a tramp,’ observed Harry; but at that moment Mysie broke in with a shout at having discovered the kittens making a plaything of the best library pen-wiper, their mother, the sleek Begum, abetting them, and they were borne off to display the coming glories of their deep fur to Aunt Jane.
Her choice fell upon the Sofy, as much because of the convenience of the name as because of the preternatural wisdom of expression imparted by the sweep of the black lines on the gray visage. Mr. Pollock’s landlady was to be the happy possessor of Artaxerxes, and the turbulent portion of the Household was disposed of to bear him thither, and to beg Miss Hacket to give Buff and Ring the run of her cage, whence they had originally come, also to deliver various messages and notes.
By the time they returned, Colonel Mohun was met in the hall by his sister. ‘Oh, Reggie, it is too good in you!’ were the words that came with her fervent kiss. ‘Remember how many years I have been seasoned to being “cockit up on a baggage waggon.” Ought not such an old soldier as I to be able to take care of myself?’
‘And what would your husband say to you when you got there? And should not I catch it from William? Well, are you packing up the youthful family for Beechcroft, except that at Rotherwood they are shrieking for Mysie?’
‘I know how good William and Alethea would be. This child,’ pointing to Primrose, who had been hanging on her all day in silence, ‘is to go to them; but as I can’t send Miss Vincent, educational advantages, as the advertisements say, lie on the side of Rockstone; so Jenny here undertakes to be troubled with the rabble.’
‘But Mysie? Rotherwood met me at the station and begged me to obtain her from you. They really wish it.’
‘He does, I have no doubt.’
‘So does Madame la Marquise. They have been anxious about little Phyllis all the summer. She was languid and off her feed in London, and did not pick up at home as they expected. My belief is that it is too much governess and too little play, and that a fortnight here would set her up again. Rotherwood himself thinks so, and Victoria has some such inkling. At any rate, they are urgent to have Mysie with the child, as the next best thing.’
‘Poor dear little Fly!’ ejaculated Lady Merrifield; ‘but I am afraid Mysie was not very happy there last year.’
‘And what would be the effect of all the overdoing?’ said Miss Mohun.
‘Mysie is tougher than that sprite, and I suppose there is some relaxation,’ said Lady Merrifield.
‘Yes; the doctors have frightened them sufficiently for the present.
‘I suppose Mysie is a prescription, poor child,’ said her aunt, in a tone that evoked from her brother—
‘Jealous, Jenny?’
‘Well, Jane,’ said Lady Merrifield, ‘you know how thankful I am to you and Ada, but I am inclined to let it depend on the letters I get to-morrow, and the way Victoria takes it. If it is really an earnest wish on that dear little Fly’s account, I could not withstand old Rotherwood, and though Mysie might be less happy than she would be with you, I do not think any harm will be done. Everything there is sound and conscientious, and if she picks up a little polish, it won’t hurt her.’
‘Shall you give her the choice?’
‘I see no good in rending the poor child’s mind between two affections, especially as there will be a very short time to decide in, for I shall certainly not send her if Victoria’s is a mere duty letter.’
‘You are quite right there, Lily,’ said the Colonel. ‘The less choice the greater comfort.’
‘Well done, sir soldier,’ said his sister Jane. ‘I say quite right too; only, for my own sake, I wish it had been Valetta.’
‘So no doubt does she,’ said the mother; ‘but unluckily it isn’t. And, indeed, I don’t think I wish it. Val is safer with you. As Gillian expressed it the other day, “Val does right when she likes it; Mysie does right when she knows it.”’
‘You have the compliment after all, Jane,’ said the Colonel. ‘Lily trusts you with the child she doesn’t trust!’
There was no doubt the next morning, for Lady Rotherwood wrote an earnest, affectionate letter, begging for Mysie, who, she said, had won such golden opinions in her former visit that it would be a real benefit to Phyllis, as much morally as physically, to have her companionship. It was the tenderest letter that either of the sisters had ever seen from the judicious and excellent Marchioness, full of warm sympathy for Lady Merrifield’s anxiety for her husband, and betraying much solicitude for her little girl.
‘It has done her good,’ said Jane Mohun. ‘I did not think she had such a soft spot.’
‘Poor Victoria,’ said Lady Merrifield, ‘that is a shame. You know she is an excellent mother.’
‘Too excellent, that’s the very thing,’ muttered Aunt Jane. ‘Well, Mysie’s fate is settled, and I dare say it will turn out for the best.’
So
