“Fie,” smiled she, “I am not so ungrateful. Shall I not regret my friends, my neighbours, good Mistress Rockhurst, and yourself?”
The boy drew back and straightened himself, galled to the quick.
“My aunt—and me! Truly, I am, madam, I am proud.” He flung himself away, his shoulder turned ostentatiously on Diana. She laughed with indulgence; then sighed. And, in heart-broken fashion, Harry caught up the sigh.
(“First stage, sighs,” reflected the watcher. “’Tis most harmless.”)
Young Rockhurst’s dudgeon was not of long duration. He edged along the wall to the bench and bashfully took seat.
“So ends the year,” he said softly, “that brought me the happiness of paradise—Diana.”
“Master Rockhurst.…”
“Must it end thus?” Suddenly bold, he tried to take the fair hand idly clasping the posy.
“Take care, sir,” she cried mischievously, “there are thorns here.”