"Will you go to your uncle Orrin, Fleda?"
"Keep you!" said Mr. Rossitur;--"I should like to see who wouldn't keep you!--There, Dr. Gregory, you have your answer."
"Hum!--I might have known," said the doctor, "that the 'faire Una' would abjure cities.--Come here, you Elf!"--and he wrapped her in his arms so tight she could not stir,--"I have a spite against you for this. What amends will you make me for such an affront?"
"Let me take breath," said Fleda laughing, "and I'll tell you. You don't want any amends, uncle Orrin."
"Well," said he, gazing with more feeling than he cared to shew into that sweet face, so innocent of apology-making,--"you shall promise me that you will not forget uncle Orrin and the old house in Bleecker street."
"And will you promise me that if ever you want anything you will come or send straight there?"
"If ever I want anything I can't get nor do without," said Fleda.
"Pshaw!" said the doctor letting her go, but laughing at the same time. "Mind my words, Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur;--if ever that girl takes the wrong bit in her mouth--Well, well! I'll go home."
Home he went. The rest drew together particularly near, round the fire; Hugh at his father's shoulder, and Fleda kneeling on the rug between her uncle and aunt with a hand on each; and there was not one of them whose gloom was not lightened by her bright face and cheerful words of hope that in the new scenes they were going to, "they would all be so happy."
The days that followed were gloomy; but Fleda's ministry was unceasing. Hugh seconded her well, though more passively. Feeling less pain himself, he perhaps for that very reason was less acutely alive to it in others; not so quick to foresee and ward off, not so skilful to allay it. Fleda seemed to have intuition for the one and a charm for the other. To her there was pain in every parting; her sympathies clung to whatever wore the livery of habit. There was hardly any piece of furniture, there was no book or marble or picture, that she could take leave of without a pang. But it was kept to herself; her sorrowful good-byes were said in secret; before others, in all those weeks she was a very Euphrosyne; light, bright, cheerful, of eye and foot and hand; a shield between her aunt and every annoyance that _she_ could take instead; a good little fairy, that sent her sunbeam wand, quick as a flash, where any eye rested gloomily. People did not always find out where the light came from, but it was her witchery.