Lest ‘e should never see.”
“Hulloa, Mr. Grace!”
The old man started and overset his bucket. “Ho, me tripe and h’onions, wot a fright yer did give me!—- Why, Master Peter, ‘oo’d ‘ave thought ter see you ‘ere. Thought yer’d forgotten h’us and wuz never comin’. H’I wuz just a-singin’ about yer. H’I h’orften does when h’I’m a-groomin’ of a ‘oss. Sorter soothes ‘im—maikes ‘im stand quiet.”
“Where’s Uncle Ocky?”
“Gone ter ‘Enley, white spats and h’all.”
“And Glory?”
Mr. Grace caught the tremble in the question and glanced up sharply. “And Glory!” He passed his hand in front of his mouth, “Miss Glory, she——. H’it’s lonely for ‘er, a bit of a gel, with two old codgers, like me and yer h’uncle. We does our best, but——. Ho, yes! Where is she? On the river, maybe, a-dreamin’. If yer’ll wite till h’I’ve finished with this ‘ere ‘oss——
“On the river!” Peter spoke quickly, to himself rather than to his friend. “Couldn’t have passed her. Must be lower down.”
He was turning away. Mr. Grace called after him, “‘Alf a mo’! Got somethink ter tell yer.” Peter halted. “H’it’s abart me darter, Grice; h’unexpected like she’s——” Peter waved his hand and passed out of ear-shot. Mr. Grace winked his eye at the horse. “Ho, beg parding!”
The sun had sunk behind the trees; the moon was rising. A little breeze shook the brittle leaves, laughing softly among them as they broke from their anchorage and swooped like bats through the dusk. On the edge of the lawn, overhanging the river, a white post stood ghostly. As he untied his punt, Peter looked up and read the legend, The Winged Thrush. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings in a gilded cage. He pushed off into the stream, creeping sharp-eyed between misty banks through the twilight.