“Oh! How great? as great as papa?”
“Yes; I hope so.”
“That’s absurd, you know,” said Miss Herbert, with all the outraged family pride that thirteen years can feel; and, turning away, she switched at the flowers with her riding-whip.
However, a few words from Gerald made them friends once more, and she expressed her pleasure that he should pick her one of the few roses which remained in the garden.
“Roses are common,” said the boy. “Every one gives roses. I will give you something prettier.”
He went to the sunny side of the house, and soon returned with half a dozen pale lavender stars in his hands. They were blossoms of a new sort of late clematis, which some one’s gardener had given Abraham Leigh. Gerald’s deft fingers arranged them into a most artistic bouquet, the appearance of which was entirely spoilt by Miss Herbert’s insistence that two or three roses should be added. The bouquet was just finished and presented when Mr. Herbert, followed by the farmer, appeared.
Although he said nothing more to young Leigh on the subject which was uppermost in the boy’s mind, the kindly encouraging look he gave him raised the widest hopes in his heart. Mr. Herbert bade the father and son a pleasant good-day, and rode off with his little daughter.
Miss Herbert carried the bunch of clematis for about two miles when, finding it rather encumbered her, tossed it over a hedge.
Gerald Leigh went back to his attic and commenced about half a dozen clay sketches of the prettiest object which as yet had crossed his path. For several days he was on thorns to hear what fate had in store for him; but fate, personified by his father, made no sign, but went about his work stolid and sphinx-like. Mr. Herbert, Gerald learned, had gone to London for a few days.