"You're going to give us our presents by-and-by."
"Yes."
"You'll feel jolly and hop o' my thumb, won't you?"
"Oh, I'll feel nothing special," replied Nora, who did not wish to encourage this brownie in his efforts after familiarity.
"How hot you look, Boris," she said, with a slight laugh.
"Hot?" echoed Boris. "I'm boiling. It's these abominations of tights. Nonie, I'd like to tell you something; it's very important, very."
"You can't possibly tell it to me now, Boris," replied Nora; "don't attempt to come too near, disarranging my clouds. Oh, what a naughty, troublesome boy you are; you have trodden upon that piece of white tarlatan, and it has all got out of shape. Do run away; do leave me alone."
Boris scampered off; he had suddenly caught a glimpse of the round, smooth face of the shepherdess, Molly, in the distance. If he could only catch her up, she would allow him to whisper in her ear. Nora was always rather a cross patch, but Molly was kind. Molly would be interested, even though she was a shepherdess. He trod on some long trains as he skimmed by. People called him a tiresome child and an awkward little worry, but he did not heed them; he was gaining on Molly, and Molly would be sure to listen to him. Everything would be all right when Molly knew. Now, he had all but reached her, but no, how tiresome—how more than tiresome—a shepherd came up and held out his crook to Molly, who held out hers to him, and then they joined hands, and then they danced away, away, away, far, very far from Boris and his question.
He turned round and stamped his pointed shoe in his vexation.