And of our scholars let us learn
Our own forgotten lore.—KEBLE
“Joan, Jenny, dearest old Joanie!” It was eagerly spoken, though the voice was strangely altered that came from behind the flowered curtain of that big bed, while the fingers drew it back, and Rollo raised his black muzzle near at hand. “Oh, Jenny! have you come to me?”
“My dear, dear, poor boy!”
“No kissing—it’s not safe,” and he burrowed under the sheet.
“As if I did not mean to do more for you than that! Besides, it is not catching.”
“So I said, till it caught me. What a jolly cold hand! You’ve not come in cold and hungry though?”
“No, indeed, Rosamond forced me to sit down to a whole spread. As if one could eat with a knot in one’s throat.”
“Mind you do, Jenny—it was what did for me. The Rector ordered me never to go about unfed; but one could not always—and there was something I have to tell you that drove all the rest out—”
“Dear Herbs! Papa can’t talk of what you have done without tears. He longed to come, but we could not leave mamma without one of us, and he thought I could do the most for you. I have a note for you.”
“Forgiving me?”