Jem grinned, nodded, and shambled off again; but, from that day forward, he attached himself to Guy with curious persistency, watching for his coming, starting up unexpectedly to hold the pony, made happy by a word or smile. He followed Guy as closely, and more humbly than Rawdie.
So it came to pass that, on the morning after her arrival with her aunt at the Hall, Florella, having found her way into part of the wood that covered Flete Edge, heard a sharp bark, and beheld Rawdie come scurrying over last year’s leaves and this year’s primroses, till a shrill whistle stopped him short.
Florella stood still also, as, coming across a clearing in the underwood, she saw Guy riding his little rough pony, and behind him, like a shadow, the grotesque figure of Jem Outhwaite. They were a strange and unusual pair, with the grotesque little dog for a herald.
Guy sprang off the pony, and came forward with an eager greeting.
“We knew you were coming yesterday,” he said. “Clifton and I meant to call this afternoon. I am so glad I am still here. Oh yes,” as she murmured an inquiry and a greeting, “I am quite strong now.”
After a few more sentences, he paused and said, with a smile, and a little shyness, “I want to show you something.”
He led her a few steps aside, along a little foot-track towards a bank, covered all over with the long trails and open flowers of the smaller periwinkle.
“There!” he said. “I have been watching these every day, to see if they would be ready for you. The spring blue-bells won’t be here for a long time; but these—they are blue—they are like stars—won’t they make a picture?”
“They are just what I wanted to see,” she said. “I have hardly ever been in the country in spring.”
“Let me get you some to take home and learn them. When I look at flowers, I almost think of how you will see them, and then I know how pretty they are.”