Bax. If he had not been told
how quiet she wanted to be he would have thought she looked rather
jolly. She had short hair and gold spectacles. Her skirts were short,
and she carried a parrot-cage in her hand. It contained our parrot, and
when we wrote to tell Father that it and Pincher were the only things we
wanted sent we never thought she would have brought either.

"Mrs. Bax, I believe," was the only break Oswald made in the polite
silence that he took the parrot-cage and her bag from her in.

"How do you do?" she said very briskly for a tired lady; and Oswald
thought it was noble of her to make the effort to smile. "Are you Oswald
or Dicky?"

Oswald told her in one calm word which he was, and then Pincher rolled
madly out of a dog-box almost into his arms. Pincher would not be
quiet. Of course he did not understand the need for it. Oswald conversed
with Pincher in low, restraining whispers as he led the way to the
"Ship's" fly. He put the parrot-cage on the inside seat of the carriage,
held the door open for Mrs. Bax with silent politeness, closed it as
quietly as possible, and prepared to mount on the box.

"Oh, won't you come inside?" asked Mrs. Bax. "Do!"

"No, thank you," said Oswald in calm and mouse-like tones; and to avoid
any more jaw he got at once on to the box with Pincher.

So that Mrs. Bax was perfectly quiet for the whole six miles--unless you
count the rattle and shake-up-and-down of the fly. On the box Oswald and
Pincher "tasted the sweets of a blissful re-union," like it says in
novels. And the man from the "Ship" looked on and said how well bred
Pincher was. It was a happy drive.

There was something almost awful about the sleek, quiet tidiness of the
others, who were all standing in a row outside the cottage to welcome
Mrs. Bax. They all said, "How do you do?" in hushed voices, and all
looked as if butter would not melt in any of their young mouths. I never
saw a more soothing-looking lot of kids.

She went to her room, and we did not see her again till tea-time.

Then, still exquisitely brushed and combed, we sat round the board--in
silence. We had left the tea-tray place for Mrs. Bax, of course. But
she said to Dora--

"Wouldn't you like to pour out?"

And Dora replied in low, soft tones, "If you wish me to, Mrs. Bax. I
usually do." And she did.

We passed each other bread-and-butter and jam and honey with silent
courteousness. And of course we saw that she had enough to eat.

"