Hecla glanced at Miss Anne Storey for leave, and then, as he released her, she scampered cheerfully off, through the open front door, and down the side path of which the Vicar had spoken. This being Chris' half-holiday, she had been in great hopes of coming across him.
And, indeed, no sooner had she passed through a mass of bushes than she saw her friend. The path opened out upon a minute pond, and by its side stood a boy, hands in pockets, surveying a large frog. The frog sat motionless, apparently surveying him with no less interest. Christie, or Chris, as he was commonly called, had a merry, freckled face, and reddish hair.
"Chris!" she cried. "Only think—only think, Chris!"
"Well?" questioned Chris, not changing his attitude.
"Chris, it's going to be so lovely!"
"What is?"
Chris showed no overwhelming interest: A girl's news was not likely to be important.
Hecla whirled round like a little dancing Dervish as a relief to her spirits, and dropped down on the grass, only to spring up and whirl again.
"Hallo—I say, you're frightening my frog."
Hecla came to a standstill.