Thistle and Rose | Page 9

of her pocket and studied it again attentively. The gentle, sweet face seemed to smile back kindly at her. "If you are half as beautiful and a quarter as good," her father had said. Was she at all like the picture now? Anna wondered. Surely her hair was rather the same colour. She pulled a piece of it round to the front--it was certainly yellow, but hardly so bright. Well, her grandfather would tell her--she would ask him on the very first opportunity. Her grandfather! It was wonderful to think she should really see him soon, and ask him all sorts of questions about her mother. He lived at Dornton, but that was only two miles from Waverley, and, no doubt, she should often be able to go there. He was an organist.
Her father's tone, half-pitying, half-disapproving, came back to her with the word. She tried to think of what she knew about organists. It was not much. There was an organist in the church in London to which she had gone every Sunday with Miss Milverton, but he was always concealed behind red curtains, so that she did not even know what he looked like. The organist must certainly be an important person in a church. Anna did not see how the service could get on without him. What a pity that her grandfather did not play the organ in her Uncle John's church, instead of at Dornton!
She made a great many resolves as she sat there, with her mother's portrait in her hand: she would be very fond of her grandfather, and, of course, he would be very fond of her; and as he lived all alone, there would be a great many things she could do to make him happier. She pictured herself becoming very soon his chief comforter and companion, and began to wonder how he had done without her so long.
Lost in these thoughts, she hardly noticed that the train had begun to slacken its pace; presently, it stopped at a large station. The old lady roused herself, tied her bonnet strings, and evidently prepared for a move.
"You're going farther, my dear," she said kindly. "Dornton is the next station but one. You won't mind being alone a little while?"
She nodded and smiled from the platform. Anna handed out her numerous parcels and baskets: the train moved on, and she was now quite alone. She might really begin to look out for Dornton, which must be quite near. It seemed a long time coming, however, and she had made a good many false starts, grasping her rugs and umbrella, before there was an unmistakable shout of "Dornton!" She got out and looked up and down the platform, but it was easy to see that Mrs Forrest was not there. Two porters, a newspaper boy, and one or two farmers, were moving about in the small station, but no one in the least like Aunt Sarah. Anna stood irresolute. She had been so certain that Aunt Sarah would be there, that she had not even wondered what she should do in any other case. Mrs Forrest had promised to come herself, and Anna could not remember that she had ever failed to carry out her arrangements at exactly the time named.
"If it had been father, now," she said to herself in her perplexity, "he would perhaps have forgotten, but Aunt Sarah--"
"Any luggage, miss?" asked the red-faced young porter.
"Oh yes, please," said Anna; "and I expected some one to meet me--a lady."
She looked anxiously at him.
"Do 'ee want to go into the town?" he asked, as Anna pointed out her trunks. "There's a omnibus outside."
"No; I want to go to Waverley Vicarage," said Anna, feeling very deserted. "How can I get there?"
She followed the porter as he wheeled the boxes outside the station, where a small omnibus was waiting, and also a high spring-cart, in which sat a well-to-do-looking farmer.
"You ain't seen no one from Waverley, Mr Oswald?" said the porter. "This 'ere young lady expects some one to meet her."
The farmer looked thoughtfully at Anna.
"Waverley, eh," he repeated, "Vicarage?"
"Ah," said the porter, nodding.
Another long gaze.
"Well, I'm going by the gate myself," he said at last. "I reckon Molly wouldn't make much odds of the lot," glancing at the luggage, "if the young lady would like a lift."
"Perhaps," said Anna, hesitatingly, "I'd better have a cab, as Mrs Forrest is not here."
"I could order you a fly at the Blue Boar," said the porter. "'Twouldn't be ready, not for a half-hour or so. Mr Oswald 'd get yer over a deal quicker."
No cabs! What a strange place, and how unlike London! Anna glanced uncertainly at the high cart, the tall strawberry horse stamping impatiently, and the good-natured, brown face of the farmer. It would be an odd