“Angels,” said Mavis. “Joan says he’s good. But—Ruby—I shouldn’t think angels would laugh.” She had scarcely said the words when they saw running down the rough slope from the hut the figure of a boy. He ran fast and lightly, his feet scarcely seeming to touch the stones; he was slight and very active-looking; it was pretty to watch him running, even though as he came close it was plain that he was only a simple fisher-boy, in rough clothes, barefoot and sunburnt. He slackened his pace a little as he came near the children, then glancing at them with a smile he lifted his dark blue cap and stopped short.
“Can I?” he began, then hesitated. He had a pleasant face and clear grey eyes, which looked one straight in the face with interest and inquiry.
“What do you say?” asked Ruby rather haughtily.
“I thought perhaps you had lost your way,” he answered quietly. “There’s not many gentry comes round here;” and then he smiled, for no very particular reason apparently, though his smile nevertheless gave one the feeling that he had a reason if he chose to give it.
“No, we haven’t lost our way,” said Ruby; “we came here on purpose. Do you know the old man who lives up there?” and she pointed to the hut.
“Is it true that there’s something queer about him?”
The boy looked at her, still smiling.
“Queer?” he repeated.
Ruby began to feel annoyed. She tapped her foot impatiently.