A Little Queen of Hearts by Ruth Ogden — Read

For some reason or other the spirits of our driving party seemed steadily rising. It was simply impossible to put anybody out of humor, no matter what happened. Everything was lovely and just as it should be, even to the pelting showers that came down with such swift suddenness as to almost soak them through before they could get under cover of waterproofs and umbrellas, and then a moment after left them stranded in brilliant sunshine, fairly steaming within the rubber coats which, with much difficulty, had but just been adjusted. Indeed, every day seemed more full of enjoyment than the one that preceded it and to call for more enthusiasm. If any one had asked Mr. Harris, for instance, how he accounted for this, he would probably have laughed good-naturedly at the question, and answered: "Why, easily enough! How could it be otherwise with this glorious weather, this beautiful country, and our jolly little party! " But the real secret of what made the party so jolly was, in fact, quite beyond Mr. Harris's ability to divine. The real secret lay with Marie-Celeste and Dorothy in the good news that had been committed to their keeping; and, strange to say, it seemed to mean as much to Dorothy, who was no relation of Theodore's, as to Marie-Celeste, who was. As a result, they were both brimming over with fun and merriment; and as there is, fortunately, nothing in the world more contagious than good spirits, the other members of the party were equally merry without in the least knowing why. Even Mr. Farwell, who had simply been invited to fill up and because he was a friend of Mr. Harris's, fell under the spell, and bloomed out in a most surprising and delightful manner, and by the time the first week was over felt as though he had known them all all his life, and, indeed, very much regretted that such was not in truth the case.

From the Waterhead Hotel, at Coniston, the plan had been laid to retrace their way a few miles over the same road by which they had come from Windermere, make a stop for two or three hours at the Rothay Hotel, and then drive on to Keswick that same afternoon. But just as they were rolling into Grasmere, the off-leader, with the total depravity peculiar to animal nature, struck the only stone visible within a hundred yards on that perfect roadway, laming himself instantly and in most pronounced fashion. This chanced to be the first mishap; but then could you really call an accident a mishap that simply necessitated a three-days' stay in the beautiful Wordsworth district? Our sunshiny little party, at any rate, chose not so to regard it, and scoured the whole lovely region on foot, reading Wordsworth's poetry in their halts by the roadside, and growing familiar with every foot of the lanes he so dearly loved. Not content with their morning spent in the Grasmere Church, and beside his grave in the little churchyard without, they even made their way to Wordsworth's old home -- beautiful Rydal Mount -- hoping, on the strength of a card of introduction to the gentleman residing there, to possibly be allowed to see the house. The gentleman, however, when they presented themselves at his door, politely bowed them out instead of in, and they were fain to content themselves with the lesser privilege of inspecting the prettily terraced garden.