grand or lowly, as you _can_ be, andyou will find it will be all right. The real way to get on happily isto think as little of _yourself_ as possible: then you will neitherdespise those below you, nor expect to be despised by those above you."
I don't know that I quite understood papa then; I think I understand itbetter now. But that night my dreams were very pleasant; they were notabout myself at all, nor even about the unknown Whytes. They were allabout a lovely room with roses growing up the walls, and as they grewhigher and higher the walls seemed to melt away and I found myself in abeautiful garden. But just as I was rushing forward in delight I caughtsight of old Lady Honor sitting in an arbour, knitting.
"Connie Percy," she said solemnly, in her rather peculiar voice;"remember, the true way to gather roses is first to plant them."
Wasn't it a funny dream?
The postman's knock came, as it generally does, while we were sitting atbreakfast. There were two letters for papa, only. I had forgottenabout Captain Whyte's answer being expected by post; my head was full ofthe Yew Trees and the climbing rose paper, and wondering if it was goingto be a fine enough day for papa to say I might drive out. It was onlywhen he looked up with a pleased exclamation that I remembered what adisappointment that letter _might_ have brought.
"It is all right," said papa. "Captain Whyte agrees to my terms.Indeed, I almost wish," he went on less brightly, "that I had not namedso high a rent. I'm afraid they are very--well, not at all rich, to putit mildly. He says they cannot afford to do anything to the house, andas it is quite healthy, they will be satisfied if it is just clean andtidy. Strictly speaking, you see, I am not bound to do much to it; Idid it up so thoroughly for Mrs Nesbitt, and it is in perfectly goodorder, substantially speaking, only--"
"The papers are _so_ ugly," said mamma. "You know Mrs Nesbitt chosethem all, and her taste was dreadful, and there are several littlethings that would make it much nicer for a family of younger people.These two poky little rooms at the back would make a nice schoolroom ifthrown into one."
"Just what Captain Whyte said himself," papa agreed. "Well, we must goover it, and I will see what I can afford."
"If they are paying a good rent," said mamma, "that might make up alittle."
Dear mamma! she looked quite delighted with herself for being sobusiness-like.
"Any way," I said, "you really _must_ let me choose a paper for thegirls' room. I'd rather pay for it myself, or count it as one of mybirthday presents, papa, than not have it."
Papa laughed at us both.
"What delightful `landladies,' I suppose that's the feminine of`landlord,' even in the sense of a `proprietor,' you would make, youtwo," he said.
But by the way he stroked my head when he went out I could tell he waspleased. I think, though he very seldom found fault with me, that papawas terribly afraid of my becoming selfish. Ah, dear, I see now that Iwas that already!
To my great delight papa's prophecy about the weather proved true. Thewind _had_ changed; it was mild, and, for November, pleasant. If only alittle bit of sun would come out, said mamma, it would be perfect.
And after luncheon--which was my dinner--the sun _did_ come out, andpapa came driving up just as we were beginning to be afraid he was goingto be late.
"I've two hours free," he called out cheerfully, as he came in. "I onlywant a scrap of luncheon, Rose; I won't be two minutes. Run and getyour hat, Connie. Wrap up well, though it is a fine day, for you've notbeen out lately."
CHAPTER THREE.
THE YEW TREES.
When I said "a pleasant day _for November_," I think I should have leftout the two last words. For they rather sound as if November was rarelypleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of England it iscertainly not so with us. Our Novembers are generally this way: thereare some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; notheavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds andtell them to be quick about it. And then for a day or two, everythingand everywhere are just _sopping_; it's almost worse than the rain, forthe sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thoughtof beginning again. But _then_--there comes sometimes a little wind,and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller,and then we generally have a few days together of weather that forpleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamydays; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a littlemelancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and beingforgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny childthat can't leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired andyet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days makeme feel much _gooder_ ("better" doesn't do so well) than even thebrightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think moreof Heaven--and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfishthoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something aboutthem I can't put in words, though once--I will come to that "once" lateron--some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.
And this day--the day we went to the Yew Trees--it was the first timemamma and I had been there for very long--was one of those days. It wasnot late in November, so though it had been raining tremendously onlythe day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much moreexpeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strengthstill with which to help.
"The wind has been pretty busy in the night," said papa. "He must havesent out all his elves to work. I scarcely remember ever seeing theroads dry up so quickly."
"But they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa," I replied--I dolike when papa says these funny kinds of things--"just look what a lotof their brushes and dusters they have left about."
We were driving along Crook's Lane as I spoke--the road to the Yew Treesgoes that way, right through Crook's Wood, and I pointed to lots ofboughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that hadbeen blown off in the night.
"Yes," said papa, laughing.
We were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage,though it is much too big for Hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove arather small horse, a cob, of papa's in it. I did feel so happy andnice. Papa was driving and I was beautifully wrapped up in the seatbehind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. Itseemed to me I had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, norheard the birds' mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender.
The Yew Trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it isstill nearer. We were soon there, and old Martha, knowing we werecoming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. It did notlook at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in aplain sort of way. The trees which give their name to the house make ashort avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, I believe,though I always think them rather gloomy.
Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had neverthoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large itwas. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me allover while papa was speaking to a man--a builder, who had come byappointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between thetwo odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and couldbe taken away quite easily, and, to mamma's great pleasure, papa decidedon this.
"It will make such a nice bright schoolroom," she said, as we wentupstairs. "And here," she went on, "is the room Bessie and I used tohave. Isn't it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used tofancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live heresome day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls."
Mamma's voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feelingcross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I amafraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers andsister.
"Well, mamma dear," I said, "if you do it up very prettily now it willbe a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside yo
u,and _also_ to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that ifEva knew about it, _she_ would be pleased. And perhaps she does."
"Darling! My own Sweet Content!" said mamma. She thought me _so_ goodfor what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, toplease myself.
"It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it," saidmamma. "I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with thepapering and painting?"
It turned out that he had--in little country towns you don't findseparate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whosewindow I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on ourway home we should
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