But Peter thought that he had known no joy so acute for years as the welcome that the small boy gave him. He hoisted Robin on to his shoulder, and there Robin sat with his naked little legs dangling over, his hands in the big man's neck.
“Oh! Mr. Westcott, I'm sure...” said Mrs. Tressiter, smiling from ear to ear and wiping her wet hands on her apron—Robin bent his head and bit Peter's ear.
“Get on, horse,” he cried and for a quarter of an hour there was wild riot in the Tressiter family. Then they were all put to bed, as good as gold,—“you might have heard a pin drop,” said Mrs. Tressiter, “when Agatha said her prayers”—and at last the lights were put out.
Peter bent down over Robin's bed and the boy flung his arms round his neck.
“I dreamed of you—I knew you'd come,” he whispered.
“What shall I send you as a present to-morrow?” asked Peter.
“Soldiers—soldiers on horses. Those with cannons and shiny things on their backs....” Robin was very explicit—“You'll be here to-morrow?” he asked.
“No—not to-morrow,” Peter answered.
“Soon?”
“Yes, soon.”