And by tacit consent they dropped the subject.
But one day before Boy went back to his loving parents, Miss Leslie took him out by himself for a walk with her through the beautiful Pass of Achray, and there sitting down by the dry and fragrant heather brilliant with bloom, she talked to him gently, holding his little grimy hand in her own.
“Boy,” she said, “if you ever want anything, will you write to me? You can write now, can’t you?”
Boy nodded, looking a trifle pale and startled.
“Suppose,” went on Miss Leslie, feeling something like a wicked conspirator as she suggested it,—“Suppose you wanted to go to school and your father wouldn’t let you, do you think—do you think—you could run away to me?”
And the gentle lady’s soft cheeks crimsoned at the audacity of this proposal.
But Boy’s eyes glittered. This was like one of Alister’s adventures.
“Yes,” he replied breathlessly, “I’m sure I could!”
“Well, well—we will hope that won’t be necessary,” said Miss Leslie hastily. “You mustn’t of course ever do such a thing unless you are quite driven to it. But if you are in trouble of any sort write to me, and I will—I will meet you anywhere.” This with a hazy notion that if it were the North Pole she would somehow manage to be there.
Boy threw his arms round her neck and kissed her.