When Philip Sidney bounded up the stable stairs, he came in upon Eliza, who was standing as he had left her, and with such a woe-begone expression that, meeting her tragical gaze, he burst into a peal of laughter.
"Oh, Mr. Philip, Mr. Philip!" she mourned. "I've spoiled everything."
"What! Let the kettle boil over?"
"No, no; you'll make light of it for my sake; but I've turned the Fabians against you! That pert little bantam will go home and tell his mother everything, and it'll make a lot o' difference. They might have been lots o' use to you."
"Don't borrow trouble, Eliza. I'm not going to have our last visit spoiled. I don't make use of my friends anyway; and beside, I'm going to be too busy to have any. Come, now, make the tea. I want to see you drink so much that you 'swell wisibly before my wery eyes.' Shall we use this fine old silver jug?"
"Mr. Sidney." Eliza wrung her hands. "You're awful smart and strong; can we get this barrel headed up again and off to the depot to-night?"
"Why," Phil hesitated, "I suppose so, but wouldn't you rather have your tea in comfort now, before we go out to dinner, and let me do the barrel to-morrow and send it off?"
"There wouldn't be any barrel," returned Eliza darkly. "Not unless you packed and sent it before you went to your school."