This was a very favorite pastime, always ending in a friendly squabble, as William wanted to “drown the little pets” and Annie insisted upon letting “the dear little things have their liberty again.” Finally half used to be drowned or given to the cat, and half let loose again; and, if there was an odd one, William tossed up for it.
It was about six o’clock on a November evening that they were standing breathless with excitement, straining their eyes in the dusk to see one cautious little mouse running round and round and all but into the trap, when they heard footsteps outside, but were far too deeply interested to look round. Presently they heard another sound, and knew by the noise of the crutches on the ground that it was Stephen who was approaching. They heard the footsteps of the first comer going to meet him, and Lilian’s voice saying impatiently:
“What a long time you have been! I thought you were never coming! Is there one? Give it me—quick, quick!”
“There it is,” said Stephen, sullenly. “What—aren’t you going to give me a word of thanks, when I went out all the way to Beckham for you when I was in such pain? Oh, Lilian, have you no heart?”
William and Annie could not see the speakers, though they could hear every word—could hear too the impatient tearing of an envelope. Then Lilian’s voice, in a soft, cooing, but only half-attentive tone, said:
“Yes, you are a dear, dear good boy, and my best—friend—in the world.” Then more quickly. “Just let me finish reading this, there’s a dear, kind fellow!”
There was a pause, and a heavy sigh from the cripple. Then Lilian spoke again more brightly:
“Now, I can thank you as you deserve. I feel as happy as a bird, and all thanks to you,” she added, caressingly.
But Stephen was sullen.
“It is not thanks to me; it is thanks to the man who wrote that infernal letter! I wish I had died before I brought it to you!”