Here was a picture of a different kind, and if the melancholy Jaques, or any other gentleman with a foible for thinking in a wood; had been there, methinks he had moralized very prettily on the hideousness of hate and the beauty of the sentiment it had interrupted so fiercely. But it escaped this sort of comment for about eight years. Well, all this woke the bairns; the lights dazzled them, the people scared them. Each hid a little face on the paternal shoulder.
The fathers, like wild beasts, each carrying off a lamb, withdrew, glaring at each other; but the very next moment the stronger and better sentiment prevailed, and they kissed and blessed their restored treasures, and forgot their enemies for a time.
Sir Charles's party followed him, and supped at Huntercombe, every man Jack of them.
Reginald, who had delivered a terrific cat-call, now ran off to Lady Bassett. There she was, still on her knees.
“Found! found!” he shouted.
She clasped him in her arms and wept for joy.
“My eyes!” said he, “what a one you are to cry! You come home; you'll catch your death o' cold.”
“No, no; take me to my child at once.”
“Can't be done; the governor has carried him off through the wood; and I ain't a going to let you travel the wood. You come with me; we'll go the short cut, and be home as soon as them.”
She complied, though trembling all over.