The crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by Allan Ruthven on their way home. They were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. There was never such fruit—there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. As for the ice cream, it was—inexpressible. In describing the feast afterwards, Marian could never get beyond the ice cream. She was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. It was like the manna that the Children of Israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it.
Graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. She had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in Allan’s purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance.
“Never mind, Graeme, dear,” said Norman; “Allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when I am Mayor of Boston, I’ll give him manna and quails too.”
They came home tired, but they had a merry evening. Even Graeme “unbent,” as Harry said, and joined in the mirth; and Janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came.
“One would think when Mr Allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while’s peace,” said she.
If the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of Allan Ruthven.
Chapter Six.
“But where’s the town?”