“Aunt Sara, Fairy is not strong, not fit for long journeys or excursions, late hours, or a foreign climate. Our doctor said it would be madness for her to venture, and that was one reason. She changed her mind of her own accord. She has always been the family pet.” “But you mention one reason. What was the _other_?” Honor now became scarlet. “It was no harm--I would rather not say,” she stammered; “you will know some day,” and she looked desperately distressed. “I wonder if she would come out _now_?” said Mrs. Brande, musingly. “We can put up two as easy as one. Eh, P.? The Hadfields expect Gerty in November. She might come with her, and get five or six months’ fun after all. It will give her something to talk of in future, and unless I’m mistaken, _she_ will give people something to talk about. Eh, P.?” Mr. Brande was slowly perusing his niece’s letter, but it did not appeal to him; it had a cringing fawning smack. Bright-eyed, impetuous Honor could never have penned such an epistle. “There is a letter on the ground that you have not seen, Mrs. Brande,” said Mark Jervis, as he picked it up. “So there is, I declare; it is from Mrs. Primrose. I’m sure she wants me to see about getting her house aired. She is rather late up this season.” Mrs. Brande ran her eyes over the paper, and gave vent to an expression of genuine dismay. “What is the matter?” inquired her husband quickly. “She cannot get away for ten days, and she is afraid to keep the child down there any longer, the heat is so awful. She wants me to take her?” “O Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Brande. “We would sooner take anything--short of small-pox. Wire at once--no room here--there are telegraph forms on my writing-table.” “Too late,” groaned Mrs. Brande; “she has sent her off--‘trusting,’” quoting the letter, “to my ‘well-known kindness and good nature!’ I’m a great deal _too_ good natured, that’s what I am,” said Mrs. Brande, with unusual irritation. “The child and ayah are actually at the station now, and will be here the day after to-morrow.” “Then I shall clear out, if I can possibly manage it,” said her husband, emphatically. “What is there about this child, Uncle Pel, that throws you and Aunt Sara into such a panic?” “Panic! I thank thee, niece, for teaching me that word! Yes; the very word--panic. Oh! I forgot you and Jervis here are new-comers, but most of the North-West have seen, or heard of, or suffered from ‘Sweet Primrose.’” “Sweet! What a name! A play on words, I suppose,” said Honor. “And a gross misfit,” growled Mr. Brande. “Pray give us a few more particulars, sir,” urged Mark. “Prepare us--put us on our guard.” “She is six years of age--an only child--‘_cela va sans dire_.’ Extremely pretty, and graceful, and intelligent.” “Ah, I believe I shall like her,” said the young man, with an appreciative nod. “I am prepared to be her champion. I’m rather fond of children--especially pretty little girls.”