"You are a good woman, Frances, but a bit hard," he said. "You don't suppose that a question of mere money would keep Ellen's child away from the Firs? While I am here she is sure of a welcome. No, there was nothing said about money in this letter, but I have no doubt the money part is right enough. Now I think I'll go out for a stroll. The sun is going off the south parlor, and whenever I get into the shade I feel chilly. If you'll give me your arm, my dear, I'll take a stroll before dinner. Dear, dear! it seems to me there isn't half the heat in the sun there used to be. Let's get up to the South Walk, Frances, and pace up and down by the ribbon border--it's fine and hot there--what I like. You don't wear a hat, my dear? quite right--let the sun warm you all it can."
It was quite late on that same afternoon before Frances found a leisure moment to read her own letter. It was not forgotten as it lay in her pocket, but she was in no hurry to ascertain its contents.
"Until it is read it is something to look forward to," she said to herself; "afterward--oh, of course there can be nothing of special interest in it."
She sighed; strong and special interests had never come in her way.
The afternoon which followed the receipt of the two letters was a specially busy one. The squire never grew tired of discussing the news which his own letter had brought him. He had a thousand conjectures which must be dwelt upon and entered into; how and when had Ellen Danvers died? what would the child Ellen be like? which bedroom would suit her best? would she like the South Walk as much as the old squire did himself? would she admire the ribbon border? would she appreciate the asparagus which she herself had seen planted?
The old man was quite garrulous and excited, and Frances was pleased to see him so interested in anything. When she had walked with him for nearly an hour she was obliged to devote some time to Watkins in the vegetable garden; then came dinner; but after that meal there always was a lull in the day's occupation for Frances, for the squire went to sleep over his pipe, and never cared to be aroused or spoken to until his strong coffee was brought to him at nine o'clock.
On this particular evening Frances felt her heart beat with a pleased and quickened movement. She had her unopened letter to read. She would go to the rose arbor, and have a quiet time there while her father slept. She was very fond of Keats, and she took a volume of his poems under her arm, for, of course, the letter would not occupy her many moments. The rose arbor commanded a full view of the whole garden, and Frances made a graceful picture in her soft light-gray dress, as she stepped into it. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, laid her copy of Keats on the rustic table, spread the bright shawl on her lap, and took the foreign letter out of her pocket.