“Just to hear Mr. ’Tonio sing—sing and play,” she explained.
And ’Tonio, as she always called him, never disappointed her.
Then Barclay himself would take her home. She refused point-blank to have the escort of Davie Drake, though she was far indeed from disliking the boy.
“I likes you, Davie,” she would say, slipping one wee hand softly into Barclay’s, “but I loves Barclay.”
This was spoken with all the innocence and frankness of childhood.
But it was no wonder that these children loved each other so well; were they not constantly together? And there was a third little person always with them. This was poor Muffie. She had not the slightest fear of dogs of her own size, and if they were saucy, she had a quick and simple method of putting them to rout. Up went her hair from crown to tail; for just a moment she did an attitude that was certainly more determined than graceful.
Then if the doggie did not at once beat a retreat, she struck out straight from the shoulder, and ten to one the enemy ran off howling with a breaking heart and a bleeding eye.
But if a collie or retriever appeared she sprang at once into Barclay’s arms, and spat defiance at the foe from this safe encampment.
. . . . . .
The hermit of the old windmill did not mind the advance of winter; the stormier seas, the moan and the sough of the wilder winds, the shrieks of the birds—all seemed to appeal to his soul, and he might have said with Burns: