"He died nearly a week ago of pneumonia," Sally explained, "and he was buried yesterday; and this afternoon, master's bringing home his little son—about your age he must be, Master Rupert—to live here at Westhill. The poor child has no mother—she died when he was a baby."
"What's his name?" Nellie asked, looking sympathetic.
"Robert; but I'm told they call him Bob."
As Sally had apparently no more information to give, the children bade her good-afternoon, and proceeded homewards. Their way along the high road was thickly strewn with withered leaves, for the time was late autumn, and the trees on either hedge were nearly bare; but the weather was dry and mild still, and the sun shone in a sky of cloudless blue. Every now and again the young folks paused to give Tim, the terrier, opportunities of digging in rabbit holes, whilst Crack, the spaniel, watched him with anxious eyes. And on one of these occasions carriage wheels were heard, and a few minutes later, Farmer Wills' dog-cart appeared round a turn of the road, driven by the farmer himself, his wife by his side, and their visitor on the back seat of the vehicle.
Nellie nodded and smiled, and Rupert took off his cap to Mrs. Wills; then as the dog-cart passed by they were able to have a good look at the stranger—a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy, who returned their curious stares by distorting his face into the most hideous grimace possible.
Rupert laughed; but Nellie reddened angrily.
"He doesn't know who we are," said Rupert, who, as the son and heir of the largest landowner in the district, had no slight opinion of his own importance, "but Farmer Wills will tell him that father is his landlord."
The children soon reached the entrance to the grounds which surrounded their home. They flung open the heavy gate, and ran up the long carriage drive to the house.
"You had better take the dogs round to the yard," said Nellie.
"No—you," Rupert promptly replied; "it's as much your place to do so as mine."