“Would do for his son,” murmured the widow.
“Georgie dear,” called a small and eager voice from the landing above, “I’ll be down directly—in one moment. There’s a button off my boot, and I must sew it on.”
“All right,” responded Mr. Rutherford. “We’ll wait in front. Come, Leo!” and he strode out.
“He doesn’t look much like a ‘Georgie,’” softly said the new-comer to the maiden lady. “What a nice boy! But I don’t understand his presence if it is a wedding tour.”
“I don’t know that any one exactly understands. I fancy Mr. Rutherford is a man likely to do things in a fashion unlike everybody else. Perhaps he has adopted the boy. Here comes the bride.”
The lady, running swiftly downstairs, could hardly have been less than six or seven-and-twenty in age. She was as small and slim in make as her husband was tall and massive, and so fair in coloring that his tawny beard might almost be counted dark beside her smooth flaxen hair. The pale fringes to her blue eyes were unwontedly long and thick, and there was enough coloring in her cheeks to obviate insipidity. Her manner was marked by an eagerness amounting to flurry; and as she ran out of the front door she grasped a long stick, a rolled-up waterproof, a closed basket, a book, and a pair of gloves.
“Georgie, dear, I’m so sorry,” she was heard to say.
“All right,” responded Mr. Rutherford once more. “Hadn’t you better give me some of your paraphernalia?”
“Oh, yes—oh, thank you, dear! It’s only this book—Trench’s Poems, you know. You said you would read me some of it. Will it go into your pocket? And Leo said I must be sure to take my stick. And I thought we might want my cloak to sit on, if the grass should be damp. And in case of being late for lunch, it is best to have some biscuits and a sandwich or two, because then we shall not feel so hurried.”
“Anything else?” asked George, with an expressive intonation.