“More!” exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; “Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!”
“He is not unhappy,” said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.
“How long ago was this?” said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.
“Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good.”
“When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!” he sighed, then recollecting himself. “Forgive me, I have given you pain.”
“No,” she said, “or rather, I gave you more.”
“I knew her—” and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, “This garden is not much altered.”
At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels—“But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!”
“A startling announcement!” said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors.
“Ethel! Ethel!” screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.