“Don’t you be ridiculous,” said Frances sharply. “I’ve no patience with boys who call every sensible word ‘preaching’.”
“I’ve no patience with girls who are everlastingly ‘sensible’.”
Frances’s frowns vanished, and smiles came instead. Her sisterly prerogative of “preaching” was so seldom exercised that Austin usually took her mild rebukes like a lamb. His laugh echoed hers just now, and he gave an affectionate hug to the arm he clung to. Brother and sister were walking at a good pace along the straggling white road to the village.
“Never mind, Sis. You shall preach as much as you like—to-day. And Mater is really all right—she must be. She has loads of friends already.”
“Loads! In a tiny place like this!” commented Frances, gazing about her. On either hand stretched the green meadows, watered by brooks filled with recent rain; in front, the country spread smiling and serene under the brilliant sun of late July. Immediately before them, the road dipped into a shallow wooded valley, studded on both sides with houses of every degree. Farther off, above the trees of Fencourt Park (the home of Woodend’s chief landlord), could be descried the broken ridges of Rowdon Common. All these interesting facts were duly pointed out by Austin, with the justifiable airs and pride of a resident; while Frances, as a new-comer, merely listened or asked sagacious questions.
“That’s where we hang out,” remarked the boy elegantly, while waving his hand towards a long, picturesquely-built house on the opposite side of the valley. “It’s a tidy crib, with lots of room.”
“A crib—with lots of room! A pretty confusion of terms, young man.”
“I’ve bagged a jolly place for larks,” continued Austin eagerly. “There’s a stove in it and a splendid big table, and a bath-room next door, which will just do for our photography.”
The boy’s face, uplifted to his sister’s, was full of the happy enthusiasm which feels itself secure of sympathy; and Frances’s heart beat high with pleasure because her welcome home was of this joyful sort. For the absent school-girl, like her brother, had known some fears—lest the six months’ parting should have taught Austin to do without her. The boy had proved a poor correspondent; and it was not easy for Frances with her warm, unselfish temperament, to realize that unanswered letters did not necessarily signify failing affection.
“That’s the church—it’s splendid for photographing, if only one could get the lines of the tower straight. And there’s the rectory alongside. The Rector’s very old; but a good sort, like the curate.”