He came home early in August, with much-improved physical health, to find Godfrey like another man, full of the prospects of the business, and as he shortly expressed it, “out of his hole.” Rawdie was in raptures.
“He has got along,” said Godfrey, “by worrying cats and hiding bones. But he will sleep on your bed, and sit on your slippers. Just look at the sentimental little beggar, cuddling into your waistcoat.”
Guy sat down when his brother left him, in his old corner in the study, with Rawdie on his knee, and looked round him. The sense of constant effort slipped away from him.
“I can do here,” he said to himself, in his northern idiom, “I’m used to it. One must pay the price.”
Part 3, Chapter IX.
The Arch-Fear.
One sunny afternoon towards the end of August, Florella was sitting on the wall of old Peggy Outhwaite’s garden, sketching a tuft of house-leek that adorned the roof of the ancient and ill-kept cottage. This little homestead, which was Peggy’s own, and had belonged to her fathers before her, was tucked into a corner of the wood above the Flete, through which the footpath led up to the Hall; the cottage was reached from that side by a little side-track.
The like of Florella had never come into Peggy’s life before, and she took to this new kind of creature very kindly, finding her a most attentive listener to Waynflete traditions.