Nora often tells us that it isn't "good
form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls
us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. Still, all
the same, I'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and I am more
than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs.
Hilliard and I were just starting for the beach that morning, when
Dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "Mr. Hilliard," she said,
"your mother would like to speak to you." So off he went with, "Excuse
me; I'll be back in a few minutes," to me.
But instead, presently back came Dillon with another message: "Mrs.
Erveng asks, Will you please to excuse Mr. Hilliard; she would like him
to do something for her for a while."
So off I went for my walk, alone. I strolled down to the beach and sat
in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them
coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them.
But after a while I got tired of that, and began wondering what they
were all doing at home without Nannie, or Miss Marston, or papa; and
then I felt so lonely and homesick that I just _had_ to get up and walk
about.
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