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The young people felt these things in a sort of dreamy, unconscious way, but they were too busy and too merry to notice them in detail. Joy was mounted safely on demure Billy, and Gypsy rode—not Mr. Burt's iron-gray, for Tom claimed that—but a free, though manageable pony, with just the arch of the neck, toss of the mane, and coquettish lifting of the feet that she particularly fancied.
Two were Wardlaw's, three were Burt's; but the odd man was there on his own hook; and my men could not make him out at all; but they think one of Wardlaw's men knew him; for he went off to Russell Square like the wind and brought Mr. Wardlaw here in disguise. Now, miss, that is all; and shall I call a cab, and we'll hear Undercliff's tale?" The cab was called, and they went to Undercliff.
"But can't I do something for you? You've thought about everybody, and no one thinks for you." "You have, and so have the rest, as far as there was occasion. Let me tell you how wan and weary you look. Oh, Amy, our home is so much more to us since you came!" "What would our home be to us to-night, Webb, were it not for you! And I said you took Burt's danger too coolly.
Then Helen saw in his eyes his mental start; the look of resignation vanished and his black brows, so like Bruce's, contracted in a frown. "He's alive then," Burt's voice was hard. Helen nodded. "I've come to see you on his behalf." "Oh, he's in trouble." His voice had an acid edge. "He wants me to help him out." "In trouble yes but I'm not sure he'd forgive me if he knew I had come."
Johnnie forgot the budding flowers in their winding-sheet, and joyously aided in the construction of the fort. Down the sloping lawn they rolled the snowballs, that so increased with every revolution that they soon rose above the children's heads, and Webb and Burt's good-natured help was required to pile them into ramparts.
They were all delighted with the result, and another selection was made, in which Burt's tenor and Webb's bass came in with fine effect. "Amy, what a godsend you are to us all!" said Leonard, enthusiastically. "I am one of the great army of poets who can't sing, but a poet nevertheless."
The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bed-head, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Burt's Letters from the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar. . . .
Burt's interview with his parents, their mingled surprise, pleasure, and disappointment, and their deep sympathy, need not be dwelt upon. Mr. Clifford was desirous of first seeing Amy, and satisfying himself that she did not in the slightest degree feel herself slighted or treated in bad faith, but his wife, with her low laugh, said: "Rest assured, father, Burt is right.
With Burt's experience before his eyes, he would never stun her with sudden and violent declarations. His love, like sunshine, would seek to develop the flower of her love. He was up and out in the October dawn, too happy and excited for sleep. His weariness was gone; his sinews seemed braced with steel as he strode to a lofty eminence.
"He's from Slumbertown, all right, all right!" shouted another. Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift. Burt hit straight over the first baseman, a line drive that struck the front of the right-field bleachers. "Peacherino!" howled a fan. Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled. Run! He was fleet as a deer.
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