"It is strange, is it not," she said to Aunt Theresa, "that, after all, I should laugh at this meeting?"
Then, sitting down on a box by the door, she held out her hands to me, saying:
"Come, little Margery, there is no sin in practising one's good manners before the mirror. Come and kiss me, dear child; I am your father's father's mother. Is not that to be an old woman? I am your great-grandmother."
My great-grandmother's voice was very soft, her cheek was soft, her cloak was soft. I buried my face in the fur, and cried quietly to myself with shame and excitement; she stroking my head, and saying:
"_Pauvre petite!_--thou an orphan, and I doubly childless! It is thus we meet at last to join our hands across the graves of two generations of those we love!"
"It was a dreadful thing!" said Mrs. Buller, rummaging in her pocket for a clean handkerchief. "I'm sure I never should forget it, if I lived a thousand years. I never seemed able to realize that they were gone; it was all so sudden."
The old lady made no answer, and we all wept in silence.
Aunt Theresa was the first to recover herself, and she insisted on our coming down-stairs. A young regimental surgeon and his wife dropped in to lunch, for which my great-grandmother stayed. We were sitting in the drawing-room afterwards, when "Mrs. Vandaleur's carriage" was announced. As my great-grandmother took leave of me, she took off a watch and chain and hung them on my neck. It was a small French watch with an enamelled back of dark blue, on which was the word "Souvenir" in small pearls.
"I gave it to your grandfather long years ago, my child, and he gave it back to me--before he sailed. I would only part with it to his son's child. Farewell, _petite_! Be good, dear child--try to be good. Adieu, Mrs. Buller, and a thousand thanks! Major Buller, I am at your service."
Major Buller took the hand she held out to him and led the old lady to the front door, whither we all followed them.
Mrs. Vandaleur's carriage was before the steps. It was a very quaint little box on two wheels, in by no means good repair. It was drawn by a pony, white, old, and shaggy. At the pony's head stood a small boy in decent, but not smart, plain clothes.
"Put the mat over the wheel to save my dress, Adolphe," said the old lady; and as the little boy obeyed her order she stepped nimbly into the carriage, assisted by the Major. "The silk is old," she observed complacently; "but it is my best, of course, or it would not have been worn to-day," and she gave a graceful little bow towards Aunt Theresa; "and I hope that, with care, it will serve as such for the rest of my life, which cannot be very long."