“Mebbe ye want ter go back now yerself,” observed Bobby, gloomily, after a time. “’Tain’t so pretty here, I’ll own.”
Margaret did want to go back, and she almost said so, but something in the boy’s voice silenced the words on her lips.
“Oh, I’ll stay, ‘course,” she murmured, shifting about uneasily on her little white-slippered feet.
Bobby roused himself.
“Here, take a chair,” he proposed, pushing toward her a low stool; “an’ I’ll set here on the winder sill. Nice night; ain’t it?”
“Yes, ’tis.” Margaret sat down, carefully spreading her skirts.
There was a long silence. Through the half-open door came a shaft of light and the sound of distant voices. Bobby was biting his finger nails, and Margaret was wondering just how she could get back to the drawing-room without hurting the feelings of her unbidden guest. At last the boy spoke.
“Mebbe when we’re grown up we’ll get married, too,” he blurted out, saying the one thing he had intended not to say. He bit his tongue angrily, but the next minute he almost fell off the window sill in his amazement—the little girl had sprung to her feet and clapped her hands.
“Bobby, could we?” she cried.
“Sure!” rejoined Bobby with easy nonchalance. “Why not?”