Читать книгу Aunt Olive in Bohemia онлайн

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She heaved a little sigh.

She found she was still clutching the large umbrella. She laid it now upon the seat beside her. She was almost too excited to think of the happiness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It was almost too overpowering. She would realize it by degrees. At the moment there were a thousand trivial delights around her.

She examined the carriage in which she was seated. The number on the door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a secret partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. She was seven years old when she had her first silk frock. It was a blue and white check frock, and her hair—Miss Mason at that time wore it in two plaits—had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon. At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope’s library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. At fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed landmarks in Miss Mason’s.