“Skating, sir,” they answered, both together. “Can you skate, Mr. Aylwinne? It is such jolly fun! We’ve been at it these two hours.”
“And what did you do with Miss Heriton the while? Let her stand shivering on the bank to watch your performances?”
“I should rather think not!” cried Walter, looking very indignant. “She skated with us, or else we pushed her in the sleigh the gardener helped us make.”
Mr. Aylwinne gave an approving nod, and Florence went away to take off her wrappings. When she came back, the boys were still talking, for they had much to tell about what they had done and learned since he had been away.
“But you’ll not leave Orwell Court again, will you?” she heard Fred inquire.
“I think not. I am tired of being a wanderer, my boy.”
“It’s very comfortable here,” said Walter, surveying the bright fire with a meditative air.
“You think so because Mrs. Wilson pampers your appetites, and spoils you,” his guardian retorted, amused at the boy’s earnestness.
Walter reddened.
“No, it’s not that, I’m sure; for I don’t think half so much of her cakes and pies as Fred does. It’s because—because——Well, I don’t hardly know why, except”—and, catching sight of Florence, who had just come, he slid his fingers into hers—“except it’s because you are here, Donna.”