The Happy Adventurers | Page 2

passed unnoticed.
A month ago Mollie had been in the full swing of mid-term. Every
moment of her life had been taken up with lessons, games, and Guiding;
the days had been too short for all she wanted to get into them, and, if
she had been allowed, she would certainly have followed the poet's
advice to "steal a few hours from the night", but, fortunately for herself,
she had a sensible mother whose views did not coincide with the poet's.
And then in the midst of all her busyness, just when she thought herself
quite indispensable to the school play, the hockey team, and her Patrol,
she fell ill with measles. She was not very ill, so far as measles went,
but her eyes remained obstinately weak, and so it was decided that she
should be sent down to the country to stay with Grannie, do no lessons
at all, and spend as much time as possible in the open air. Luckily, or
unluckily, according to the point of view, none of the other children
had caught the disease, so that Mollie went alone to Chauncery, as
Grannie's house in Sussex was called.

Chauncery was an old-fashioned house standing in a beautiful garden
surrounded by fields and woods. If Mollie could have had a companion
of her own age, she would have been perfectly happy there, in spite of
frustrated ambitions and the trial of not being allowed to read; but the
very word "measles" frightened away the neighbours, so that no one
came to keep her company, and she sometimes felt very lonely.
Nevertheless, she had accommodated herself to circumstances, and,
between playing golf with Aunt Mary, driving the fat pony, and
learning to milk the pretty Guernsey cows, she managed to "put in a
very decent time", as she expressed it. Till this third misfortune befell
her.
"First measles, then eyes, and now a sprained ankle," she sighed to
Aunt Mary on the morning after her accident; "what can I do to pass
the time? It's all very well for Baden-Powell to talk, but I can't sing and
laugh all day for a week; it would drive you crazy if I did. I have smiled
till my mouth aches. What shall I do next?"
"You poor chicken!" Aunt Mary exclaimed, with the most comforting
sympathy. "You have had a run of bad luck and no mistake! We must
invent something. You can't read and you can't sew--how about knitting?
Suppose we knit a scarf in school colours for Dick, or a jumper for
yourself to wear when you are better? I could get wool in the village.
That would do to begin with, till I think of something better."
Mollie agreed that it certainly would be better than doing nothing,
though hardly an exciting occupation for an active girl of thirteen. So
the scarf was set agoing, whilst Grannie read aloud, and the first half of
the first day was got through pretty well. But after lunch the day
darkened and rain began to fall in heavy slate- coloured streaks,
pouring down the window-panes and streaming across the greenhouse
roof, changing the bright daylight into a dismal twilight, and blotting
out all view of the garden. It was depressing weather even for people
who were quite well, and poor Mollie might be forgiven for finding it
hard to keep up her spirits. She was tired of knitting, tired of being read
aloud to, and tired of writing letters to her family.
"How would you like to see some photographs of your father when he

was little?" suggested Grannie at last. "He was the most beautiful infant
I ever saw." She opened a cupboard door as she spoke, and presently
came back to Mollie's side with an arm-load of photograph- albums, the
kind of albums to be found in country houses, filled with carte-de-visite
photographs of old-fashioned people, all standing, apparently, in the
same studio, and each resting one hand on the same marble pillar. The
ladies wore spreading crinoline skirts, and had hair brushed in smooth
bands on either side of their high foreheads; the men wore baggy
trousers and beards; family groups were large, and those boys and girls
taken separately looked altogether too good for this world.
Mollie smiled at the picture of her father, a fat, solemn baby in his
mother's arms. She thought, but did not say, that he was a remarkably
plain child, and congratulated herself that she took after her mother in
appearance; though, of course, Father, as she knew him, was not in the
least like that infant. At the rest of the photographs she looked politely,
but it was hard work to keep from yawning, and at last her mouth
suddenly opened of itself and gave a great gape.
"That's right,"