Miss Tempest’s plans went beyond the gardener’s scope. She had for some months been inclined to have a boy to help in the house—an inclination justified by a late unexpected accession of income: if this boy were what he seemed, he would make a more than valuable servant; and nothing could clear her judgment of him better, she thought, than putting him to the test of a brief subjection to the cross-grained, exacting Scotchman. By that she would soon know whether to dismiss him, or venture with him farther!
She had but just wrung his hard consent from the gardener, when the cook came running, to say the boy was gone. Upon poor Miss Tempest’s heart fell a cold avalanche.
“But we’ve counted the spoons, ma’am, and they’re all right!” said the cook.
This additional statement, however, did not seem to give much consolation to the benevolent old lady. She stood for a moment with her eyes on the ground, too pained to move or speak. Then she started, and ran to the gate. The cook ran after, thinking her mistress gone out of her mind—and was sure of it when she saw her open the gate, and run straight down the bank to the road. But when she reached the gate herself, she saw her standing over a boy asleep on the grass of the opposite bank.
Abdiel, lying on his bosom, watched her with keen friendly eyes. Clare was dreaming some agreeable morning-dream; for a smile of such pleasure as could haunt only an innocent face, nickered on it like a sunny ripple on the still water of a pool.
“No!” said Miss Tempest to herself; “there’s no duplicity there! Otherwise, a tree is not known by its fruit!”
Clare opened his eyes, and started lightly to his feet, strong and refreshed.
“Good morning, ma’am!” he said, pulling off his cap.
“Good morning—what am I to call you?” she returned.
“Clare, if you please, ma’am.”