Wild Heather. L. T. Meade

was at once cross and sorrowful, and I wondered very much why she was not glad to be back in old England. But when I asked her if she were glad, her only answer was to catch me to her heart and kiss me over and over again, and say that she never, oh never! meant to be unkind to me, but that her whole one desire was to be my dearest, darling "Nana," and that she hoped and prayed I would ever remember her as such. I thought her petting almost as tiresome as her crossness, so I said, in my usual pert way:

      "If you are really fond of me, you won't stick any more pins in me," when, to my amazement, she burst into a flood of tears.

      Now I had a childish horror of tears, and ran out of the room. What might have happened I do not know; whether I should have lost myself in the great hotel, or whether Anastasia would have rushed after me and picked me up and scolded me, and been more like her old self, and forbidden me on pain of her direst displeasure to ever leave her side without permission, I cannot tell. But the simple fact was that I saw father in the corridor of the hotel, and father looked into my face and said:

      "Why, Heather, what's the matter?"

      "It's Anastasia who is so queer," I said; "she is sorry about something, and I said, 'If you are sorry you will never stick pins in me again'—and then she burst out crying. I hate cry-babies, don't you, Daddy?"

      "Yes; of course I do," replied my father. "Come along downstairs with me, Heather."

      He lifted me up in his arms. I have said that I was eight years old, but I was a very tiny girl, made on a small and neat scale. I had little, dark brown curls, which Anastasia used to damp every morning and convert into hideous rows of ringlets, as she called them. I was very proud of my "ringerlets," as I pronounced the word at that time, and I had brown eyes to match my hair, and a neat sort of little face. I was not the least like father, who had a big, rather red face and grey hair, which I loved to pull, and kind, very bright, blue eyes and a big mouth, somewhat tremulous. I used to wonder even then why it trembled.

      He rushed downstairs with me in his usual boisterous fashion, while I laughed and shouted and told him to go faster and faster, and then he entered a private sitting-room and rang the bell, and told the man who appeared at his summons that dinner was to be served for two, and that Miss Heather Grayson would dine with her father. Oh, didn't I feel proud—this was an honour indeed!

      "I need not go back to the cry-baby, then, need I?" I said.

      "No," replied my father; "you need not, Heather. You are to stay with me."

      "Well, let's laugh and be very jolly," I said. "Let me be a robber, pretending to pick your pockets, and you must lie back and shut your eyes and pretend to be sound, sound asleep. You must not even start when I pull your diamond ring off your finger. But, I say—oh, Daddy!—where is your diamond ring?"

      "Upstairs, or downstairs, or in my lady's chamber," replied Daddy. "Don't you bother about it, Heather. No, I don't want to play at being burgled to-night. Sit close to me; lay your little head on my breast."

      I did so. I could feel his great heart beating. It beat in big throbs, now up, now down, now up, now down again.

      Dinner was brought in, and I forgot all about the ring in the delight of watching the preparations, and of seeing the grand, tall waiter laying the table for two. He placed a chair at one end of the table for father, and at the other end for me. This I did not like, and I said so. Then father requested that the seats should be changed and that I should sit, so to speak, in his pocket. I forget, in all the years that have rolled by, what we had for dinner, but I know that some of it I liked and some I could not bear, and I also remember that it was the dishes I could not bear that father loved. He ate a good deal, and then he took me in his arms and settled me on his knee, sitting so that I should face him, and then he spoke.

      "Heather, how old are you?"

      I was accustomed to this sort of catechism, and answered at once, very gravely:

      "Eight, Daddy."

      "Oh, you are more than eight," he replied, "you are eight and a half, aren't you?"

      "Eight years, five months, one week, and five days," I said.

      "Come, that is better," he said, his blue eyes twinkling. "Always be accurate when you speak. Always remember, please, Heather, that it was want of accuracy ruined me."

      "What is ruined?" I asked. "What in the world do you mean?"

      "What I say. Now don't repeat my words. You will be able to think of them by and by."

      I was silent, pondering. Daddy was charming; there never was his like, but he did say puzzling things.

      "Now," he said, looking full at me, "what do you think I have come to England for?"

      I shook my head. When I did not know a thing I invariably shook my head.

      "I have come on your account," he replied.

      "On mine, Daddy?"

      "Yes. I am going back again to India in a short time."

      "Oh, what fun!" I answered. "I love being on board ship."

      He did not reply at all to this.

      "Why don't you speak?" I said, giving his grizzled locks a lusty tug.

      "I am thinking," was his answer.

      "Well, think aloud," I said.

      "I am thinking about you, Heather. Have you ever by any chance heard of a lady called Aunt Penelope?"

      "Never," I answered. "Aunt Penelope—Aunt Penelope—what is an aunt, Daddy?"

      "Well, there is an Aunt Penelope waiting to see you in old England, and I am going to take you down to her to-morrow. She is your aunt—listen—think hard, Heather—use your brains—because she is your mother's sister."

      "Oh!" I answered. "Does that make an aunt?"

      "Yes, that makes an aunt; or if she were your father's sister she would also be your aunt."

      I tried to digest this piece of information as best I could.

      "I am taking you to her to-morrow, and you must learn to love her as though she were your mother."

      I shook my head.

      "I can't," I said.

      "Well, don't think about it," was Daddy's reply. "Love her, without knowing that you love her. I believe she is a very good woman."

      "I 'spect so," I said. "I don't much care for good womens."

      As a rule I spoke quite correctly, but when excited I did make some lapses.

      "Well, that's all," said father, suddenly putting me down on the floor. "Run up to bed now and to sleep. You will see Aunt Penelope to-morrow; you will like her very much. I have brought you all the way to England in order that you might see her."

      I was a bit sleepy, and it was very late for me to be up. So I kissed Daddy two or three times and ran upstairs all alone. Anastasia was waiting for me at the head of the stairs.

      "Anastasia," I shouted, "we are going to have a real jolly time. We are going to Aunt Penelope to-morrow. She is aunt because she is mother's sister; she would be aunt, too, if she was father's sister. I wonder how many people she is aunt to? Is she your aunt, Anastasia?"

      "No, my dear child," said Anastasia, in quite a gentle tone.

      "And isn't it fun, Anastasia?" I continued. "Daddy has brought me all the way to England just to see Aunt Penelope, and we are going back to India almost immediately—Daddy said so."

      "Said what, Miss Heather?"

      "That we were going back to India almost—almost at once. Isn't it just lovely? You will come too, of course, only you might remember about the pins."

      Anastasia, who had placed me on a little chair, now went abruptly to the fire and stirred it into a brilliant blaze. I