“I am so glad you have both come back,” he said; “I have been awfully lonely; Mrs. Ferguson is not the best company. Now I expect I shall have a right jolly time. You are going to live here always, are you not, aunt?”
“Listen to me, Murray,” said Rowton; “you are not to worry your aunt.”
“Oh! he won’t,” said Nance. She took one of the small hands—hard as iron it felt, for the boy was all muscle—and patted it softly.
“We won’t worry each other, will we?” said Murray, glancing up at her again and laughing.
Rowton gave the pair as they sat thus close together—the very fair young girl, for Nance was nothing more, and the beautiful dark boy—an earnest, penetrating glance.
“By Jove!” he said, “I see you are both going to fall in love with each other. Take care both of you; I shall begin to be jealous.”
“Not you, Adrian,” said Nance with a smile.
“But he will, though,” said Murray; “you don’t know him yet, auntie; I don’t know anyone who can be so, so——”
“So what?” said Rowton. “Come here this minute, lad, and give your aunt an account of me; she won’t believe what I say of myself, but you have known me for years.”
“Not so many years,” said Murray. “I am only eleven, and that is quite young, isn’t it?”