With just a glance at the two, who for the moment had forgotten everyone but themselves, he stooped and picked up Orme—a disconsolate, woe-begone baby, whose ideas would need much readjusting after this eventful night.
The others followed, pitter-patter down the stairs, and along the gravelled path. But it was Marjorie who entered first through the open door into her mother's presence.
Mr. Bethune still sat beside his wife's couch. He put up a hand to hush the intruder, but Marjorie saw beyond him the wide, questioning eyes and the wave of colour rushing into her mother's face. She did not know that she herself—radiant, sparkling, with a look upon her face only to be seen on a maiden's face in presence of her beloved—was sufficient herald of good news. It scarcely needed her words.
"All quite safe, mother," even if Sandy's rush past her restraining hand had not told the tale.
The children entered like a conquering army. Mr. Warde slid Orme, murmuring satisfaction, down on to the sofa beside his mother, and watched with an unaccountable pang at his heart as she gathered them all into her arms. The parents accepted David's rapid "Didn't mean to, father," and his explanation of the mishap which they had never counted on—too glad to see them safe, too accustomed to their enterprise, too certain that what they said was true, to give the scolding they perhaps deserved.
As the news of their safety spread, sympathisers flocked in. Like a young turkey-cock lifting up its crest, Sandy stood a captive at Mrs. Lytchett's knee, his jacket held tightly in her firm grasp.
"I hope your father's going to whip you," she said severely.
"Ain't," said Sandy.
"Then he ought. Do you know you've nearly killed your mother?"
Sandy's glance crossed the room, his conscience giving a repentant twinge.