Presently the two playmates grew tired of snowballing and retired to a little arbour, commonly called the sun-trap, for here on the coldest days warmth could generally be found. There was a lull in the merry sounds, but it was only the calm which precedes a storm, for before long came a vehement expostulation, “Gabriel! Gabriel! let me have it. I will have it.”
“Not till you have promised,” was the teasing retort, and from the arbour there sprang out a small boy, with the most winsome and mischievous face, his hazel eyes sparkling with elfish mirth, while he held high above his head a wooden puppet, as dear to its small owner as the loveliest of modern dolls.
The bereft mother refused to enter into the game; it might be sport to him, but it was death to her.
“I won’t promise!” she said, angrily. “Give me my babe.”
“No,” said Gabriel, laughing. “I can’t have you chopping and changing. You said yesterday you would, and now you have changed your mind. Come, promise, Hilary, and I’ll give you the puppet.”
“Never!” said Hilary, furiously.
With a teasing laugh he tossed the puppet high in the air, intending to catch it as it fell; but, Hilary, frantic at this treatment of her Bartholomew babe, charged him with fury like a little goat, and the next minute both children were rolling in the snow..
By the time they had picked themselves up the whole situation had changed, for, much to their astonishment, a huge mastiff came bounding through the garden and, seizing the puppet on the path, began to worry it.
For a minute both paused, the girl aghast, the boy with knitted brows. It was well enough to tease his small playmate now and then, but he had not reckoned on this four-footed intruder. A sob from Hilary made him fly to the rescue.
“Leave go, you brute!” he shouted, trying in vain to drag back the mastiff by his collar.