But he was off early next morning to the valley, and to his surprise and pleasure found Seppi on his old knoll by the fir-trees, with his sketch-book and chalks beside him. He was looking eagerly out for Squib, to hail him as he passed, fearing lest he should plunge straight down to the bridge.
Moor, too, was on the lookout on his own account, and came bounding up to him, pushing his black nose into his hand, and soliciting notice. Moor had been very affectionate to Squib ever since the death of Czar. It seemed as if he recognized the child’s loss, and tried to show sympathy in his own way. Squib repaid this affection warmly, and thought Moor, next to Czar, the nicest dog in the world. He followed him willingly enough to Seppi’s knoll.
“You are up here again, Seppi! That is nice!”
“Yes; I wanted to come again,” said Seppi with a wistful look round him. “I do so love the mountains; and I cannot see them properly from the other side.”
Squib sat silent a little while thinking, and then asked,—
“Do you think these mountains are so much better than any other mountains? Would you be very sorry to go away and leave them?”
There was a strange look in Seppi’s eyes as he looked straight out before him.
“I—I—don’t quite know,” he said softly, almost more to himself than to his companion. “Sometimes I think—perhaps—it would be better there.”
Squib shot a little glance at him from under his brows. Seppi’s face wore the sort of look one sees on the face of a person who is looking on things from which he is soon rather likely to have to part. And the younger boy recognized this look at a glance.
“He does know something about it,” he said to himself. “Perhaps his father doesn’t want it talked about, and so he keeps it to himself. But he has heard something, I am sure. I hope he does not mind very much.”