Holidays at the Grange | Page 3

the arrival of the Greens. That tall, slender,
intellectual girl, with pale oval face and expressive eyes, is Ellen. Her
cousins are very proud of her, for she has just returned from
boarding-school with a high character for scholarship, and has carried
away the prize medal for poetry from all competitors; the children think
that she can speak every language, and she is really a refined and
accomplished girl. She has not seen Mary or Cornelia for a couple of
years, and great are the rejoicings at their meeting; they are warm
friends already. Her manly brother Tom, although younger, looks older
than she does: a fine, handsome fellow he is. The younger Greens are
almost too numerous to particularize; Harry and Louis, Anna and
Gertrude--merry children all, noisy and frolicsome, but well-inclined
and tolerably submissive to authority; they ranged from nine years old,
upward. Just as the sun was setting, and Aunt Lucy had almost given
them up, the third family of cousins arrived, the Boltons. Charlie
Bolton is the elder of the two--he will be called Charlie to the end of
his days, if he live to be a white-haired grandfather, he is so pleasant
and full of fun, so ready with his joke and merry laugh; he is Cornelia's
great friend and ally, and the two together would keep any house wide
awake. His sister Alice is rather sentimental, for which she is heartily
laughed at by her harum-skarum brother; but she is at an age when girls
are apt to take this turn--fourteen; she will leave it all behind her when
she is older. Sentimentality may be considered the last disease of
childhood; measles, hooping-cough, and scarlatina having been
successfully overcome, if the girl passes through this peril unscathed,
and no weakness is left in her mental constitution, she will probably be

a woman of sane body and mind. Alice is much given to day-dreams,
and to reading novels by stealth; she is very romantic, and would dearly
love to be a heroine, if she could. The only objection to the scheme, in
her mind, is that her eyes have a very slight cast, and that her nose is un
petit nez retroussé--in other words, something of a pug; and Alice has
always been under the impression that a heroine must have straight
vision, and a Grecian nose. Hers is a face that will look very arch and
piquante, when she acquires more sense, and lays aside her
lack-a-daisical airs; but, at present, the expression and the features are
very incongruous. It is excessively mortifying! but it cannot be helped;
many times a day does she cast her eyes on the glass, but the obstinate
pug remains a pug, and Alice is forced to conclude that she is not
intended for a heroine. Yet she always holds herself ready for any
marvellous adventure that may turn up, and she is perfectly convinced
that there must be concealed doors, long winding passages in the walls,
and perhaps a charmingly horrible dungeon, at The Grange. Why not?
Such things are of constant occurrence in story books, and that house is
the oldest one she knows. She is determined on this visit to explore it
thoroughly, and perhaps she may become the happy discoverer of a
casket of jewels, or a skeleton, or some other treasure.
Thirteen young people there are in all, with pleasant faces and joyful
hearts; and none of them, I am happy to say were of the perfect sort you
read of in books. Had they been, their Aunt Lucy, who was used to real
children, would have entertained serious fears for their longevity. They
all required a caution or a reprimand now and then, and none were so
wise as not to make an occasional silly speech, or to do a heedless
action. But they were good-tempered and obliging, as healthy children
should always be, and were seldom cross unless they felt a twinge of
toothache. How fast did their tongues run, that first hour! How much
had all to tell, and how much to hear! And how happy did Uncle John
appear, as he sat in the centre of the group, with little Amy on his lap,
leaning her languid head against his broad and manly chest, while a
cluster of the younger ones contended together for possession of the
unoccupied knee.
After the hearty, cheerful country supper, the whole party of visitors

was escorted into a dark room adjoining the hall, while Aunt Lucy and
Cousin Mary were engaged in certain preparations, well understood by
the older guests, who were too discreet to allay the curiosity of the
younger ones, who for the first time were allowed to share the
hospitality of the Grange at Christmas. At last the folding-doors were
thrown open, and