‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to something that looked like a bit of dirty rag, which stuck out of the side of a thick branch just over his head. Isobel frowned and hesitated.
‘You make me tell you all my secrets,’ she said at last, laughing; ‘but if I tell you, you must promise, honour bright, not to tell any one else.’
‘I promise,’ said Vivian solemnly, looking curiously at the odd-looking bundle, which was partly covered with snow.
‘Well, then, that’s my very own private hiding-place. I found it out by myself, and no one else knows of it. I was up here one day last summer, and was walking along this branch and holding on to that one—you can do that in summer, when the branches are not slippery—and all at once my fingers went into a hole. The wood felt quite rotten, and I broke it away, and made it bigger, and I found that the whole branch was hollow, so I began to use it to put things in—story-books and things. Then, on half-holidays when I wanted to be alone, I used to climb up here, and sit and read, and nobody knew where I was.’
‘But what is that bundle of rags for?’ went on Vivian, puttingup his hand to pull them down. | |
| V. L. | [Page 59]. |
‘But what is that bundle of rags for?’ went on Vivian, putting up his hand to pull them down.
‘Oh, don’t touch them!’ cried Isobel, almost overbalancing herself in her anxiety; ‘that is an old duster that I borrowed from Mary. I stuck it in to prevent the rain and snow getting inside the branch and making the hole all wet. It would spoil my books, you see, if it got damp.’
‘I won’t touch it; I just want to see,’ said Vivian, stretching his neck and regarding the place with keen interest. ‘Do you ever keep things in it just now?’
‘No, never,’ said Isobel; ‘it’s far too wet; besides, it would be no fun sitting up a tree at Christmas time.’
At that moment Claude caught sight of Isobel’s bright scarlet tam o’ shanter over the top of the summer-house, and, with a shout to Ronald, he bore down on them as fast as his fat little legs would let him.