"Yes. Truthful, and above-board, and brave. Marjorie is a Wilton, every inch of her. Hullo! the train is in, and there come my scamps. Well, Basil, here you are, sir—and Master Eric, too! Sorry to be home, eh? I make no doubt you are. Now, look here, you villains, you are not going to tear my place to pieces. How many more pets, I wonder?"
"Only some rabbits, gov—father, I mean," said Basil.
"That's right, Basil—you know I don't allow you to 'governor' me—I like the old-fashioned word best. So there are some rabbits, eh? How are they to get home?"
"Oh, they can go with the pigeons and the ferrets," chimed in Eric, a small boy with a freckled face, and bright ruddy-gold hair.
"Isn't the dogcart here, father?" asked Basil.
"No, you're to come home in state in the family coach. A cart ought to be somewhere round for your luggage. The beasts can go in that."
"Oh, not the ferrets," said Eric. "I think perhaps I had better walk home with the ferrets. They might eat through their basket, and get at my fantails."
"Nonsense! stow them away under this seat, and jump in, lads. Do you see Ermie? She's all in a flutter to kiss you."
"How do, Ermie?" said Eric. "Stick your legs well out in front, or the ferrets may bite 'em."
Basil didn't say anything, but he clasped Ermengarde's slim fingers in his big brown hand. Basil's squeeze signified a good deal, and Ermengarde colored up, and her heart swelled with pride and pleasure.