"I am afraid your arms must be aching, Dora," Gilbert said; "those bulrushes are heavy, I know. I wish I could help carry them."
"Oh, never mind!" she replied cheerfully; "my arms do ache a little, but when we come to the next gateway we'll rest for a bit, shall we?"
"Certainly we will. How dark it's getting. It must be later than I thought; or perhaps it's only the branches keeping out the light."
The gateway reached, Dora put down her bundle of bulrushes on the ground, and perched herself on the top of the five-barred gate, against which Gilbert leaned whilst he surveyed the view—a stretch of pasture land, and beyond that the old disused clay pits, the water in which, being stagnant, appeared green and unwholesome even at that distance.
"See how dark the clouds are over there!" Dora exclaimed, pointing to the horizon. "It looks like a storm, doesn't it? I wonder if it's coming this way!"
"Perhaps it is; but, if so, it won't reach Wreyford for some time yet."
"Oh, Gilbert, there are two boys fishing in that clay pit—the one nearest here, I mean. I wonder if we can make out who they are. Yes—no—yes —I know!"
"I don't!" Gilbert replied. "What sharp eyes you must have, Dora. I can see two figures, but I can't recognize either. Your sight is better than mine. Who are they?"
"Reginald Hope and Gerald Willis."
"Hope and Willis? Are you sure?"