That same day, after leaving the doctor, I proceeded first to Mrs.
Blake's to tell her the news. She threw a shawl over her head and
accompanied me directly to Mrs. Larkum's. We found her sitting in a
comfortable, though rather ancient easy-chair, which I had exhumed, along
with a good many other useful articles, from the garret at Oaklands. The
two older children we interrupted taking a lesson at their mother's knee.
The primer was gladly laid aside, while the children came coyly to my
side, quite certain there was a delectable bite for them somewhere in my
pockets. I dismissed that care from my mind by dividing the sweets, and
then gave Mrs. Larkum her lunch. She sat enjoying the dainty food,
sharing now and then a taste with the little ones, who had a keen
appreciation for Oaklands' cookery. I sat watching the group, glancing
now and then at Mrs. Blake's eloquent face with a good deal of
satisfaction. I was anxious to break the news carefully and scarce knew
how to begin, when Mrs. Larkum looked up at me eagerly and said:
"Have you any news from father?"
"What makes you think she has news?" Mrs. Blake asked.
"I dreamed last night you brought me a letter, and I was afraid to open
it, and woke up all trembling and frightened. When I saw you coming
to-day, my heart stood still for a second or two."
"Your dream is partly true, only the news is good. Dr. MacKenzie told me
they have every hope that your father will see as well as ever."
I was not prepared for the effect, my words produced.
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