"
"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I may
read it quite easily."
I promised, and repeated the poem.
"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just like
the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give it me in
writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what else you
have brought me."
I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the plant
and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only expressed
satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat down with us.
"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the loss
of her mother very much, poor thing."
"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie.
"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, and
her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old lady,
you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on the
tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; he would
never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming to.'"
My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad
manners.
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