“It is Dominic, isn’t it?” cried one of the girls.
“Yes, it is!” cried the other. “Oh, Nic, how you have grown!”
“And oh!” cried the other, “how you have distressed poor Sorrel! You shouldn’t have ridden him so hard.”
This was in the intervals between kisses, as the lad was embraced by first one and then the other. But as soon as he could free himself, Nic ran to meet his mother, who was descending more slowly.
“My dear boy!” she cried.
“Mother!” and they were locked in each other’s arms.
Mrs Braydon could say no more for some minutes, but stood with the tears streaming down her handsome face, clinging tightly to her son, while the two dogs looked on uneasily, whining and giving short, half-angry barks, as if they did not quite understand whether the attentions of the three ladies were friendly toward their young master.
The tears stood in the eyes of the two girls as well, but they were tears of joy, and in a merry, laughing way the elder cried:
“Oh, mother, you must not keep him all to yourself!”
“No, no, of course not,” cried Mrs Braydon, locking one arm now in Nic’s. “Poor boy! how hot and weary he is, Janet!”