Harry Whittaker, when suddenly claimed by Florrie as her long-lost brother, felt an immediate sense of recognition of the fair, fat, bouncing-ball of a seven years child, whom he remembered in the equally bouncing and fully proportioned damsel of fifteen.
“If you’re my little sister Florrie,” he said, taking hold of her hands, “how do you come to be out here by yourself at this time in the evening?”
“’Twas I went and chattered to the keepers and set ’em upon you. And when little Miss Lily found this here letter, I knew as how it was you and Miss Geraldine’s brother, and I run away to tell Wyn to stop ’em.”
“Run away from the Warrens?”
“No—from Ravenshurst; I was to help the nurse there.”
“Run away from your situation!”
“Well,” said Florrie with more spirit, “it was a deal better to run away than have you put in prison. I ain’t so set on situations, either.”
“Well, Florence, you’re a plucky girl I see, and I’m greatly obliged to you; but now I must just take you back to the keeper’s lodge, that they may be able to say to the lady that your own brother brought you home again.”
He gave a little squeeze to the hand he held, which brought a curious thrill to Florence’s heart. “But—but won’t they take you up?” she said.
“No; I shan’t play hide-and-seek any longer. Anyway, if you came out to take care of me I’m bound to take care of you. So come along.”