So it was. The same old Robert. The same old Trots.
“Look again. Look, look! Yonder is Aunt Serapheema getting in. And darling mother in the doorway.”
We were near enough to shout.
And shout we did. Peter joined in with a will, and Ritchie and Lawlor joined to help us.
Jill and I even crept out along bowsprit and jib-boom, and waved our handkerchiefs and shouted again.
Was there ever such an home-coming in the world I wonder!
Auntie knows our voices. Mother waves back to us.
“Call away the boat!”
In a few minutes more, rowed by the sturdy arms of Lawlor and Ritchie, the little boat is bounding over the water.
Then it is beached, and mother, half hysterical and wholly in tears, does not know which of us to hug first.