“Sir, sir,” said Gabriel, running towards them, “pray do come and see the monument we have made to Sir John Eliot.”
The two gentlemen praised the work.
“And what do you know of Sir John?” said Mr. Unett, with a smile.
“I know how brave he was,” said Gabriel, “and that he died to save us from being made slaves.”
“He heard Sir Robert reading the news-letter,” said Dr. Harford, putting his hand tenderly on Gabriel’s head. “Somehow a child always contrives to go straight to the mark and grasp the essential point of a tale.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” murmured Frank Unett, glancing from the eager-faced children to the snow effigy—the only monument brave John Eliot was like to have in the land for which he died. “But what’s amiss with your arm, lad?”
“Sir Robert’s dog bit it, but my father has cured it again,” said Gabriel, sturdily.
“It was my fault, father,” said Hilary; “we were quarrelling.”
“Eh? What was the disputed point? You two are for ever arguing.”
“Yet their greatest punishment is to be apart,” said Dr. Harford, with his genial laugh.