Now they are passing the vicarage garden. The gate is open, and Frank, much to the amusement of Tom and Will in the hind-seat of the pony-carriage, stares hard through the white posts and up the lawn. Whatever his thoughts or hopes may have been, they are rudely interrupted (and most probably shattered) by a couple of voices from behind, which seem to be bubbling over with amusement, and to be jostling each other for the first and loudest place.
“She’s away!”
“Who’s away?” asked Frank quietly, with assumed indifference.
“Who’s away?” repeat the two behind. “Why, who’re you looking for, eh?”
“Are the vicarage people away, then?” said Frank.
“Rose is,” again comes from the bubbling voices.
But before the subject can be pursued further, old John, pointing with his whip, says,—
“There’s the master, sir.”
And Frank, looking straight away up the road, discerns his father coming towards them, and jumps out of the carriage.
“Why, Frank, my boy, I declare you’ve grown!”