“I do wish it, otherwise the afternoon would pass very slowly to me.”
“Then, I will be here at one o'clock.”
“Half past one will do.”
“I will be on hand. Till then I will bid you good morning, as I shall be wanted at home.”
“Very well, Herbert.”
Herbert left the room and hurried home, for it was nearly twelve. On the way he stopped at the post office, and found a letter addressed to his mother. He did not recognize the handwriting, nor, such was his hurry, did he notice where it was postmarked. He had no watch, but thought it must be close upon twelve o'clock. So he thrust the letter into his pocket, and continued his way homeward on a half run. He was in time, for, just as he reached the front gate from one direction, the squire reached it from the other.
“Good morning,” said the squire, a little stiffly. “Is your mother at home?”
“I presume she is. Won't you come in?”
“I wonder if they've got the money ready,” thought the squire, as he followed Herbert into the modest sitting room.