The passing of time for the three at the Manor, Madame, Mrs. Budge and
Harkness, was marked, Mother Lynch well knew, by Robin's coming and
going. For, when her Jimmie had returned from southern seas, Robin had
insisted upon going straight to him, and it was not until her aunt had
laid aside the last shred of her old prejudice and invited Robin's
father to the Manor for a long visit that Robin had consented to look
upon the Manor as her "home," though, even then, she steadfastly
asserted "part" of her time must be spent with Jimmie.
While at the Manor James Forsyth had painted his "Wood Sprite," which
won for him quick and wide recognition, and ever afterward Robin and
Madame Forsyth referred to it as "our picture."
No, Mother Moira was never lonesome.
A gay voice roused her now from her happy reverie, footsteps rustled the
grass, cool hands, with a touch as light as the blowing petals, closed
over her eyes.
"Dreaming again, little Mom? You're incurable!" And Beryl, with a laugh,
dropped upon the ground close to the hammock, one hand closing over her
mother's.
"It's a bit of a cat-nap I'm stealing," fibbed Mother Moira, blushing
like a girl.
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