“Oh, stuff! What was it Mamma heard, Osmond? That your mother was ever so much better, wasn’t it?”
“I thought it was worse,” said Osmond.
“Well, never mind: your hanging about here won’t do her any good, I suppose.”
“No; but—”
“Oh, he’ll catch it from the governess!—I say, how many seams shall you have to sew to-day, Hal?”
“I don’t sew seams: I do as I please.”
“Ha! Is that them coming out of church!”
“Oh, it is! it is!” cried John from his elevation. “Oh, help me down, Hal!”
But Henry did not want Miss Fosbrook to find him partaking in gate-climbing; and either that desire, or the general terror a bad conscience, made him and the Grevilles run helter-skelter the opposite way, leaving poor little John stuck on the top of the gate, quite giddy at the thought of coming down alone, and almost as much afraid of being there caught by Miss Fosbrook coming home from church.
It was a false alarm after all, that the congregation were coming out. John would have been glad if they had; for nothing could be more miserable than sitting up there, his fingers tired of clutching the spikes, his feet strained with reaching down to the bar, his legs chilled with the wind, his head almost giddy when he thought of climbing down. He would have cried, could he have spared a hand to rub his eyes with; he had a great mind to have roared for help, especially when he heard feet upon the road; but these turned out to belong to five little village boys, still smaller than himself, who, when they saw the young gentleman on his perch, all stood still in a row, with their mouths wide open, staring at him. Johnnie scorned to let them think he was not riding there for his own pleasure; so he tried to put a bold face of the matter, and look as much at ease and indifferent as he could, under great bodily fear and discomfort, the injury of his brother’s desertion, the expectation of disgrace, and the reflection that he was being disobedient to his parents in the height of their trouble!