“You’ve got to go back?—there?”
“When I’m well again.”
Her tell-tale face registered her distress. He laid his hand over her little brown one.
“Not for a while. I shall often think of this place and this day,” he said, gazing off over the sea. “Ye’re a comfortable cricket, when ye want to be. I’d like to capture ye, to sing on my hearth!”
She sprang up.
“Well, I’m not ready to settle yet, so your hearth must go bare.”
“Like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard! Where are ye hoppin’ off to?”
“Hotel, for lunch.”