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First thing I noticed was they didn' know he was called Chandon, for Glasson took a piece o' paper an' wrote it down. I was afraid of Glasson, an' pitched that yarn about an aunt o' mine, which was all kid. I never 'ad no aunt." "What's your name, by the way?" "Tilda." "Tilda what?" "That's what they all arsks," said Tilda wearily. "I dunno.
He said this in a highly jocular manner, and accompanied it with a wink at Tilda, who did not understand the allusion. But again she felt the child's hand thrill and tremble, and turned about, eyeing him curiously. Her movement drew upon him the Mortimerian flow, ever ebullient and ever by trifles easily deflected.
He said it in mere elation, without a hint of reproach. "I'm so sorry." "Sorry? What is there to be sorry about? Come along." They climbed the turfy slope in silence, Tilda too deep in amaze for speech. By and by she asked irrelevantly "Where is 'Dolph?" "Eh? 'Dolph? He was with me five minutes ago. Off chasing rabbits, I expect. He has missed catching about two dozen already."
She gave it, puzzled; for this world so strange to him was the world she knew best. She could not understand what ailed him. But it was characteristic of Tilda that she helped first and asked questions afterwards, if she asked them at all. Usually she found that, given time, they answered themselves. It was well, perhaps, that she asked none now.
Tilda closed the book. She had learnt a little, but had been disappointed in more. She felt desperately sorry for the child with this craze in his head about an Island. She had a suspicion that the memories he related were all mixed up with fictions from the play. As she put it to herself, "'E don't mean to kid, but 'e can't 'elp 'isself."
S'pose we scratch it out an' say, 'A man ought to be 'appy when 'e can call 'er 'isn'? That what schoolmaster calls the third person." "There didn' ought to be no third person about it," said Tilda severely; "on'y 'Enery an' 'er. Well, go on." "I can't. That's so far as I've written up to the present. It's a rough copy, you understand; an' at Stratford I allow to write it out fair an' post it."
By this time smoke was issuing in a steady stream from the stove-pipe above the cabin-top, and presently from within came the hiss and fragrance of bacon frying. Sam Bossom had stepped ashore, and called to the children to help in collecting sticks and build a fire for the tea-kettle. Tilda, used though she was to nomad life, had never known so delightful a picnic.
A swing-lamp shone down upon a white-covered table; and upon the table were bread and cheese and biscuits, with a jug of water and glasses. Alongside the table ran two bunks, half-curtained, clean, cosy and inviting. "Say what yer like," said Tilda half an hour later as, having selected their bunks, the children composed themselves to sleep, "but Bill 'as the 'ead of the two."
"That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by land or by water . . . all sick persons, and young children." "I love my love with a H'aitch, because he's 'andsome " Tilda turned over on her right side she could do so now without pain and lifting herself a little, eyed the occupant of the next bed. The other six beds in the ward were empty.
"I have not that honor," was the haughty reply, the lady drawing up her costly shawl and moving a little away from her interlocutor, who continued: "I thought like enough you might have seen 'Tilda, or Mattie she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom is a very forrard boy."
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