"Oh, couldn't I?" cried Elsie.
"No, it 'ud never do,"' he said, decisively. "Never mind; I'll light the fire now, and we'll have our dinner."
The fire was quickly kindled, and after it had died down a little, the four eggs were covered over with hot embers, and left to roast. Ishmael had brought a can of sparkling water from a little spring trickling down the rock, whilst Elsie had laid out their dinner. Now she was sitting beside it on a big stone, with her hands lying idly on her lap in simple enjoyment, and her blue eyes gazing out happily on the waving branches outside, whose shadows flickered up to her feet in a constant dance.
"Oh, Ishmael," she cried, "I must say the song mother taught me about 'That's the way for Billy and me.' It seems as if it was made for us: and I'll say them while the eggs are roasting.
"Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
"Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
"Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thickest and greenest,
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
"Where the hazel-bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free.
That's the way for Billy and me.
"Why the boys should drive away
Little maidens in their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well
That's a thing I never could tell.
"But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay,
Up the water, and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me." ¹
¹ This lovely little song is by James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, and is not as well-known as it deserves to be.
But Elsie had scarcely finished the last line when she saw the branches before her slowly parted, and a man's head bent down, and looking into their cave. It was a brown, sunburnt, rugged face: she knew it well enough, but she had never liked it, and at this moment it filled her with vague terror. Ishmael was kneeling by the red and smouldering fire, and touching the eggs with the tips of his fingers. So absorbed was he that he did not notice the darkening of the green twilight as the gamekeeper came stooping under the archway; and he laughed a low, quiet laugh of delight as he took one of the eggs from its hot bed.
"That one's done, Elsie!" he exclaimed, gaily.
"What's done?" asked Nutkin's harsh voice close beside him. "I saw the smoke from your fire, you young rascal, and I came to see what mischief you're up to. What, pheasant's eggs! Pheasant's eggs! Would nothing else serve you for your dinner?"
Ishmael knelt, unable to stir, and gazing up aghast into the gamekeeper's angry, yet triumphant face. What could he say? There were the eggs in the ashes between them; he could not even drop the one he was holding in his outstretched hand. He felt as if he could neither move nor speak. He had no right to those eggs; they were stolen; but he had not thought of that when Elsie had uttered her childish wish.