“This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a clergyman—that is, at first sight,” said the Poet. “Is he really badly hurt, Gabriel?”
“They ain’t no bones broke, but Si’s groanin’ somethin’ terrible an’ says it’s his insides.”
“But he can’t want me,” said the Poet. “Why, I put together the links of circumstantial evidence that proved he stole the eggs.”
“That’s jest it. Si says you’re th’ Lord’s instrument sent to awaken his sleepin’ conscience—darn him!—an’ he’s afraid of hell-fire if you don’t come an’ hear his confession.”
“Poor man!” said Galatea, with tears in her eyes. “Come, George, I’ll go with you. It’s only a step. Arthur, you wait here; we’ll soon be back.”
Conducted by Gabriel, they disappeared down the road, and the Artist was alone with his fate. He had no premonition of disaster. He lay on the grass with his eyes closed, wrapped in the joys and miseries of being in love.
The living croquet-arches, with one impulse, got their heads together and considered the situation.
“I, for one, shall go and take a look around the kitchen,” said Clarence.
“It’s the roof of the house for me,” said William; “I haven’t had a good view of the surrounding country since strawberry-time.”
“What about that chap on the grass?” asked Gustavius. “What will he be doing?”