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Ebook has 2968 lines and 126566 words, and 60 pages

"Did you really bestow a thought upon me when I was out of sight?" with mild surprise. "Are you in earnest? Do you know, Miss Vernon, I begin to believe it is a foolish thing to stay too long away from one's native land--away from the society of one's own countrymen; a man feels so dangerously pleased with any little stray kind word that may be said to him on his return. I have been living a rather up-and-down sort of life, not quite so civilized as might have been, I fear, and it now seems absolutely strange that anyone should take the trouble to think about me." He says all this in a slow, rather effective tone, looking pensively at Dora the while.

Here is an opportunity not to be wasted, and Dora instantly blushes her very best blush; then becoming charmingly confused, lets her glance once more fall on her tatting.

"That is awfully pretty work you are doing," says Mr. Carrington, taking up the extreme edge of it and examining it with grave interest. "I like to see women working, when their hands are soft and white. But this looks a difficult task: it must have taken you a long time to master the intricacies."

"Oh, no. It is quite simple--just in and out, you see like this. Any one could learn it, if they just put their mind to it."

"Do you think you could teach me, if I put my mind to it?" asks Mr. Carrington. And then their eyes meet; their heads are close together over the work; they smile, and continue the gaze until Dora's lids droop bashfully.

I am disgusted. Evidently they regard me in the light of a babe or a puppy, so little do they allow my presence to interfere with the ripple of their inane conversation. I am more nettled by their indifference than I care to confess even to myself, and come to the uncharitable conclusion that Mr. Carrington is an odious flirt, and my sister Dora a fool.

"When you left this house, where did you go then?" asks Dora presently, returning to the charge.

"To Strangemore--to my uncle. Then Ada--that is my sister, Lady Handcock--married, and I went into the Guards. You see I am determined to make friends with you," he says pleasantly, "so I begin by telling you all I know about myself."

"I am glad you wish us to be your friends," murmured Dora innocently. "But I am afraid you will find us very stupid. You, who have seen so much of the world, will hardly content yourself in country quarters, with only country neighbors." Another glance from the large childish eyes.

"Judging by what I have already seen," says Mr. Carrington, returning the glance with interest, "I believe I shall feel not only content, but thoroughly happy in my new home."

"Why did you leave your regiment?" I break in, irrelevantly, tired of being left out in the cold, and anxious to hear my own voice again, after the longest silence I have ever kept.

Dora sighs gently and goes back to the tatting. Mr. Carrington turns quickly to me.

"Because I am tired of the life; the ceaseless monotony was more than I could endure. So when my uncle died and I came in for the property, five years ago, I cut it, and took to foreign travelling instead."

"I think if I were a man I would rather be a soldier than anything," I say, with effusion. "I cannot imagine any one disliking the life; it seems to me such a gay one, so good in every respect. And surely anything would be preferable to being an idler."

I am unravelling a quantity of scarlet wool that has been cleverly tangled by Cheekie, my fox-terrier, and so between weariness and the fidgets--brought on by the execution of a task that is utterly foreign to my tastes--I feel and have pointed my last remark. Dora looks up in mild horror, and casts a deprecating glance at our visitor. Mr. Carrington laughs--a short, thoroughly amused laugh.

"But I am not an idler," he says; "one may find something to do in life besides taking the Queen's money. Pray Miss Phyllis, do not add to my many vices one of which I am innocent. I cannot accuse myself of having wasted even five minutes since my return home. Do you believe me?"

I hasten to apologize.

"Oh, I did not mean it, indeed," I say earnestly; "I assure you I do not. Of course you have plenty to do. You must think me very rude."

"Thank you," he says; "I am glad you exonerate me. I felt sure you did not wish to crush me utterly. If you entertained a bad opinion of me, Miss Phyllis, it would hurt me more than I can say."

A faint pause, during which I know his eyes are still fixed with open amusement upon my crimson countenance. I begin to hate him.

"Have you seen the gardens?" asks Dora musically. "Perhaps to walk through them would give you pleasure, as they cannot fail to recall old days, and the remembrance of a past that has been happy is so sweet.'' Dora sighs, as though she were in the habit of remembering perpetual happy pasts.

"I shall be glad to visit them again," answers Mr. Carrington, rising, as my sister lays down the ivory shuttle. He glances wistfully at me, but I have not yet recovered my equanimity, and rivet my gaze upon my wool relentlessly as he passes through the open window.

It is four o'clock. There is a delicious hush all over the house and grounds, a hush that betrays the absence of the male bird from his nest, and bespeaks security. Billy and I, hat in hand, stand upon the door-step and look with caution round us, preparatory to taking flight to Brinsley Wood. Ever since my unlucky confession of having asked Mr. Carrington's permission to wander through the grounds--thereby betraying the pleasure I feel in such wanderings--we have found it strangely difficult to get beyond the precincts of our home. Obstacles the most unforeseen crop up to stay our steps, some supernatural agency being apparently at work, by which papa becomes cognizant of even our most secret intentions.

To-day, however, brings us such a chance of freedom as we may not have again, business having called our father to an adjoining village, from which he cannot possibly return until the shades of evening have well fallen. Our evil genius, too, has for once been kind, having forgotten to suggest to him before starting the advisability of regulating our movements during the hours he will be absent. We are, therefore, unfettered, and with a glow of pleasure not unmixed with triumph we sally off towards the deep green woods.

It is that sweetest month of the twelve, September--a glorious ripe September, that has never yet appeared so sweet and golden-brown as on this afternoon, that brings us so near the close of it. High in the trees hang clusters of filberts, that have tempted our imagination for some time, and now, with a basket slung between us, that links us as we walk, we meditate a raid.

As with light, exultant footsteps we hurry onwards, snatches of song fall from my lips--a low, soft contralto voice being my one charm. We are utterly, carelessly, recklessly happy, with that joyous forgetfulness of all that has gone before, and may yet follow, that belongs alone to youth. Now and then Billy's high, boyish notes join mine, making the woods ring, until the song comes to sudden grief through lack of memory when gay laughter changes the echo's tone. Here a bunch of late and luscious blackberries claim our attention. And once we have a mad race after a small brown squirrel that evades us cleverly, and presently revenges itself for its enforced haste by grinning at us provokingly from an inaccessible branch.

At last the wood we want is reached; the nuts are in full view; our object is attained.

"Now," asks Billy, with a sigh of delight, "at which tree shall we begin?" It is a mere matter of form his asking me this question, as he would think it derogatory to his manly dignity to follow any suggestion I might make.

All the trees are laden: they more than answer our expectations. Each one appears so much better than the other it is difficult to choose between them.

"At this," I say, at length, pointing to one richly clothed that stands before us.

"Not at all," returns Billy, contemptuously: "It isn't half as good as this one," naming the companion tree to mine; and, his being the master-mind, he carries the day.

"Very good: don't miss your footing," I say, anxiously, as he begins to climb. There are no lower branches, no projections of any kind to assist his ascent: the task is far from easy.

"Here, give me a shove," calls out Billy, impatiently, when he had slipped back to mother earth the fourth time, after severely barking his shins. I give him a vigorous push that raises him successfully to an overhanging limb, after which, being merely hand-over-hand work, he rises rapidly, and soon the spoiler reaches his prey.

Down come the little bumping showers; if on my head or arms so much the greater fun. I dodge; Billy aims; the birds grow nervous at our unrestrained laughter. Already our basket is more than half full, and Billy is almost out of sight among the thick foliage, so high has he mounted.

Slower, and with more uncertain aim come the nuts. I begin to grow restless. It is not so amusing as it was ten minutes ago, and I look vaguely around me in search of newer joys.

At no great distance from me I spy another nut-tree equally laden with treasure and far easier of access. Low, almost to the ground, some of the branches grow. My eyes fasten upon it; a keen desire to climb and be myself a spoiler seizes upon me. I lay my basket on the ground, and, thought and action being one with me, I steal off without a word to Billy and gain the wished-for spot.

Being very little inferior to Billy in the art of climbing--long and dearly-bought experience having made me nimble, it is at very little risk and with small difficulty I soon find myself at the top of the tree, comfortably seated on a thick arm of wood, plucking my nuts in safety. I feel immensely elated, both at the eminence of my situation and the successful secrecy with which I have carried out my plan. What fun it will be presently to see Billy looking for me everywhere! He will at first think I have gone roaming through the woods; then he will imagine me lost, and be a good deal frightened; it will be some time before he will suspect the truth.

I fairly laugh to myself as these ideas flit through my idle brain--more, perhaps, through real gayety of heart than from any excellence the joke contains--when, suddenly raising my head, I see what makes my mischievous smile freeze upon my lip.

From my exalted position I can see a long way before me, and there in the distance, coming with fatal certainty in my direction, I espy Mr. Carrington! At the same moment Billy's legs push themselves in a dangling fashion through the branches of his tree, and are followed by the remainder of his person a little later. Forgetful of my original design, forgetful of everything but the eternal disgrace that will cling to me through life if found by our landlord in my present unenviable plight, I call to him, in tones suppressed indeed, but audible enough to betray my hiding-place.

"Billy, here is Mr. Carrington--he is coming towards us. Catch these nuts quickly, while I get down."

"Come down, can't you?" says Billy, with impatience "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg."

Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and nearer. As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking if anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. As he meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets round to the other side of the tree, from which point the horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I feel I shall drop dead.

"Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome part of the business for you?" calls out our welcome friend, while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help you down?"

He has become preternaturally grave--so grave that it occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very wrathful.

"Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost.

"Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the landscape.

Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton--that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags--to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh.

"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet."

"Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, and still retaining his hold of me.

"Yes, I am," I answered, tearfully. "Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it.

"Oh, horrible!" says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness.

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