But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!’”
Neither Phyl nor Dolly would have dreamed of ending a story of any kind without some favourite verse; there were even times when the end of the story shaped itself so that a particular verse might be worked in.
Down-stairs, just after the dinner-things had been cleared away, Phyl had looked at Freddie, and Freddie looked at Phyl.
“I wonder,” was Phyl’s thought, shame in her heart at having neglected his studies so badly during the day, “I wonder if I could coax him to do some parsing now to make up.”
And Freddie had quaked beneath her blue considering eye.
“I’m in for it now,” he thought to himself.
“What are you going to do to-night, Freddie?” she said, and actually stroked his round little head.
Freddie kept his head very still under her hand, but stole an amazed glance at her through his [214] ]eyelashes—the affectionate diminutive of his name, and a caress!
“Oh,” he said in his kindest and most hearty little way, “I thought I’d just do a bit of gography for you, Phyl dear, I don’t know my capes very well, do I?”