When she reached the bank, she was sadly disappointed: all the finest flowers were gone: only a few faded ones were left, which were hardly worth the trouble of gathering.—“Oh dear, what a pity!” said poor Julia, “I wonder who has been here! I wish I had got up earlier. However, perhaps it was last night that they were plucked. I saw some boys and girls at a distance, as I went home: probably they came this way and took the primroses. I wish they had not touched them. I dare say they did not want them as much as I do: but I will pick some of these, and ask mamma if she thinks Mary will like them. I fear she will not, for they look half dead!”—The disconsolate Julia walked slowly back, with the faded nosegay in her hand. She met her mother, who was coming down to breakfast, in the passage.
JULIA. Oh, mamma! you were right in saying we could not be sure of the future. I have lost my bow-pot, notwithstanding it is a fine morning: all the good flowers are gone! See, mamma, only these shabby things were left. Did you think, last night, somebody would take them before I went to gather them?
MRS. V. No, Julia, I did not: I am very sorry for this second disappointment; particularly as you bear it with good humour, and do not indulge in fretful repinings. These flowers, in their present faded state, would be no ornament to your sister’s room. But I believe I can assist you in your distress. On Monday, when we walked through the lane on the other side of the church-yard, I observed a profusion of wild flowers in the hedges; and in the fields adjoining there are primroses and cowslips. It is too far for you to go alone; but after breakfast I will accompany you there. I hope that, after all, you will have the bow-pot you are so desirous of. You have conducted yourself very well, my love, both last night and this morning. Yesterday you gave up your own pleasure to assist the poor lamb; and now you support the loss of the flowers with good temper. I am glad it is in my power to make you some amends.
Whilst at breakfast, Julia expressed her fears that Mary might arrive before she returned from her walk. “At what o’clock, mamma, will my aunt and Mary be here?” said she. “I cannot tell exactly,” replied Mrs Vincent. “Not so early, however, as you seem to expect. London is more than twenty miles from this village. Your aunt will, I believe, set off soon after her breakfast; but we can walk to the church-lane, and back again, in a shorter time than she can travel twenty miles. I expect you will be able to do a great deal of business before they arrive. I think you will have time to ornament Mary’s room, say your lessons, and work, all before they come. I do not suppose they will be here till nearly three o’clock.” “Not till three o’clock!” exclaimed the little girl: “that is a long time.”—“It will not appear long, if you employ yourself.”
