"Not I, Dick, thank you. I should have thought you too old to eat that."
"Am I, though?" said Dick, biting a huge morsel of the tempting compound. "It's jolly. I say, how's Mother Butter?"
"She's jolly," replied Mr. Henry, laughing.
"Give my respectful compliments to her, and tell her I've come home. Do, please, Mr. Henry."
Dick disappeared with a careless good-night, that rang out joyously in the evening air. Mr. Henry, having missed the opportunity to ask about his perilous bath at Boulogne, went on to the railway station, and dropped his letter into the box. There was a popular superstition obtaining, that letters posted there went quicker than if posted at the grocer's in the village. He was taking the middle of the road back, Sir Simon's grounds on one side, the plantation on the other,—when fleet footsteps came running behind, and a pair of light hands were laid upon his coat. He turned to see his sister.
"Mary! What brings you here so late as this?"
She laughed as she explained: she was in a merry mood. Mrs. Hill had taken them out a little way in the country, and they missed the train they ought to have come back by, and had only now got in. She could not help it, and she was running home to mamma and mamma's displeasure.
"You will catch it," said Mr. Henry, with comic seriousness. "Mamma had her things on in the afternoon, waiting for you to go out with her. Is that safe, Mary?"
"Yes, yes. Just for once, Arthur."
For she had linked her arm within his. Mr. Henry looked round on the lonely road. "All right," he said, "there's nobody about. I have not had you on my arm for a long while."