"It isn't coming down," he said, "because, you know, we haven't any up. Yours is a big fine house, I suppose?"
"It's a fair size. Two story, you know, and all among woods and gardens. Oh, I'm sure you'll like it!"
It was time for Fred to laugh again.
"Very likely I shall see it," he said somewhat ironically; "but come in till I sup my porridge."
"I've had mine long ago, and so has Toddie, and we've had such a game of romps. But of course you'll come often to Benshee House. I have a Shetland pony and a little trap, and can come over to you."
"Oh! but, Frank Fielding," Fred said solemnly, as he dipped his spoon in a basin of creamy milk, "don't forget I'm only a poor working lad, and you are a young gentleman."
The tears sprang to poor Frank's eyes in a moment but he manfully kept even a single one from falling. He stretched out his hand and grasped that of Fred, even though he had the spoon in it.
"There," said Frank, "I've made you spill the milk. But never mind. Now, Fred, just listen. Don't be a fool. I'm not a cad, mind. My father is a Scotchman, though my mother is English. My father made his money in stocks, and might lose it to-morrow."
"Avertit omen," murmured Fred.
"I don't know Chinese, Fred; but I do know this, you and I are going to be fast friends, and bother the rank and riches. My father makes me learn Burns's poems. My mother thinks they are not bon ton."