“How late you are!” he said; “and you have got great black shadows under your eyes. You know, of course, that I have to catch the early train in the morning?”
“To be sure I do, Terry; and it is for that very reason I have come back so punctually. I want to pack your things my own self.”
“Ah, that's a good girl. You'll find most of them laid out on the bed. Be sure you see that all my handkerchiefs are there—two dozen—and all marked with my initials.”
“I never knew you had so many.”
“Yes; mother gave me a dozen at Christmas, and I have not used them yet. I shall want every bit of decent clothing I possess for my visit to my rich Uncle Hartrick.”
“How is mother, Terence?”
“Mother? Quite well, I suppose; she is fretting a bit at my going; you'll have to comfort her. The place is very rough for her just now.”
“I don't see that it is any rougher than it has ever been,” said Nora a little fiercely. “You're always running down the place, Terry.”
“Well, I can't help it. I hate to see things going to the dogs,” said the young man. He turned on his heel, called a small fox-terrier, who went by the name of Snap, to follow him, and went away in the direction of the shore.
Nora whipped up her pony and drove on to the house. Here she was greeted by her father. He was standing on the steps; and, coming down, he lifted her bodily out of the dog-cart, strained her to his heart, and looked full into her eyes.