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“Gaily the Troubadour Touched his guitar, When he was hastening Home from the war; Singing, ‘From Palestine Hither I come. Ladye love! ladye love! Welcome me home.’” |
Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.
“Little-sing!” he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.
During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.
“By the way,” he said, “I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes—two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?”
“She wrote to me, dear,” said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. “She was very much obliged to you.”
“And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things—that you had nothing to do with them?”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Martin. “Won’t you have some coffee, James? I’ll tell Matilda to bring it in.”
“Coffee—fiddlestick!” said Martin; “and you know I hate to be called ‘James.’ Where’s Bo-peep?”
“You are Bo-peep,” said his wife with a funny smile.