LITMIR.BIZ

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rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay a little figure, face down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.

      I picked up the child — it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare, and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearth-rug to examine him. He was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man’s trousers that had been botched small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.

      “Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it he got hold of you?”

      But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together, his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him, and put her face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one shrink from its unbridled emotion of caress:

      “Did he hurt you, eh? — tell us where he hurt you.” She would have put her arms around him, but he shrank away.

      “Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here — and it’s bleeding. Go and get some water, Emily, and some rags. Come on, Sam, let me look and I’ll put some rags round it. Come along.”

      She took the child and stripped him of his grotesque garments. Trip had given him a sharp grab on the thigh before he had realised that he was dealing with a little boy. It was not much, however, and Lettie soon had it bathed, and anointed with elder-flower ointment. On the boy’s body were several scars and bruises — evidently he had rough times. Lettie tended to him and dressed him again. He endured these attentions like a trapped wild rabbit — never looking at us, never opening his lips — only shrinking slightly. When Lettie had put on him his torn little shirt, and had gathered the great breeches about him, Emily went to him to coax him and make him at home. She kissed him, and talked to him with her full vibration of emotional caress. It seemed almost to suffocate him. Then she tried to feed him with bread and milk from a spoon, but he would not open his mouth, and he turned his head away.

      “Leave him alone — take no notice of him,” said Lettie, lifting him into the chimney seat, with the basin of bread and milk beside him. Emily fetched the two kittens out of their basket and put them too beside him.

      “I wonder how many eggs he’d got,” said the father, laughing softly.

      “Hush!” said Lettie. “When do you think you will go to Canada, Mr Saxton?”

      “Next spring — it’s no good going before.”

      “And then you’ll marry?” asked Lettie of George.

      “Before then — oh, before then,” he said.

      “Why — how is it you are suddenly in such a hurry? — When will it be?”

      “When are you marrying?” he asked in reply.

      “I don’t know,” she said, coming to a full stop.

      “Then I don’t know,” he said, taking a large wedge of cheese and biting a piece from it.

      “It was fixed for June,” she said, recovering herself at his suggestion of hope.

      “July!” said Emily.

      “Father!” said he, holding the piece of cheese up before him as he spoke — he was evidently nervous: “Would you advise me to marry Meg?”

      His father started, and said:

      “Why, was you thinking of doing?”

      “Yes — all things considered.”

      “Well — if she suits you —”

      “We’re cousins —”

      “If you want her, I suppose you won’t let that hinder you. She’ll have a nice bit of money, and if you like her —”

      “I like her all right — I shan’t go out to Canada with her though. I shall stay at the Ram — for the sake of the life.”

      “It’s a poor life, that!” said the father, ruminating.

      George laughed. “A bit mucky!” he said —“But it’ll do. It would need Cyril or Lettie to keep me alive in Canada.”

      It was a bold stroke — everybody was embarrassed.

      “Well,” said the father, “I suppose we can’t have everything we want — we generally have to put up with the next best thing — don’t we, Lettie?”— he laughed. Lettie flushed furiously.

      “I don’t know,” she said. “You can generally get what you want if you want it badly enough. Of course — if you don’t mind —”

      She rose and went across to Sam.

      He was playing with the kittens. One was patting and cuffing his bare toe, which had poked through his stocking. He pushed and teased the little scamp with his toe till it rushed at him, clinging, tickling, biting till he gave little bubbles of laughter, quite forgetful of us. Then the kitten was tired, and ran off. Lettie shook her skirts, and directly the two playful mites rushed upon it, darting round her, rolling head over heels, and swinging from the soft cloth. Suddenly becoming aware that they felt tired, the young things trotted away and cuddled together by the fender, where in an instant they were asleep. Almost as suddenly, Sam sank into drowsiness.

      “He’d better go to bed,” said the father.

      “Put him in my bed,” said George. “David would wonder what had happened.”

      “Will you go to bed, Sam?” asked Emily, holding out her arms to him, and immediately startling him by the terrible gentleness of her persuasion. He retreated behind Lettie.

      “Come along,” said the latter, and she quickly took him and undressed him. Then she picked him up, and his bare legs hung down in front of her. His head drooped drowsily on to her shoulder, against her neck.

      She put down her face to touch the loose riot of his ruddy hair. She stood so, quiet, still and wistful, for a few moments; perhaps she was vaguely aware that the attitude was beautiful for her, and irresistibly appealing to George, who loved, above all in her, her delicate dignity of tenderness. Emily waited with the lighted candle for her some moments.

      When she came down there was a softness about her. “Now,” said I to myself, “if George asks her again he is wise.”

      “He is asleep,” she said quietly.

      “I’m thinking we might as well let him stop while we’re here, should we, George?” said the father.

      “Eh?”

      “We’ll keep him here while we are here —”

      “Oh — the lad! I should. Yes — he’d be better here than up yonder.”

      “Ah, yes — ever so much. It is good of you,” said Lettie. “Oh, he’ll make no difference,” said the father.

      “Not a bit,” added George.

      “What about his mother?” asked Lettie.

      “I’ll call and tell her in the morning,” said George. “Yes,” she said, “call and tell her.”

      Then she put on her things to go. He also put on his cap. “Are you coming a little way, Emily?” I asked.

      She ran, laughing, with bright eyes as we went out into the darkness.

      We waited for them at the wood gate. We all lingered, not knowing what to say. Lettie said finally:

      “Well — it’s no good — the grass is wet — Good night — Good night, Emily.”

      “Good night,” he said, with regret and hesitation, and a trifle of impatience in his voice and his manner. He lingered still a moments; she hesitated — then she struck off sharply.

      “He has not asked her, the idiot!” I said to myself.

      “Really,”

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