“Here we are, cousin Hortensia,” exclaimed Ruby as they came in, “and I do hope it’s nearly tea-time.”
“Not quite, my dear,” Miss Hortensia replied, glancing at a beautifully carved Swiss clock which stood on the mantelpiece; “the little trumpeter won’t tell us it’s six o’clock for half an hour yet—his dog has just barked twice.”
“Lazy things,” said Ruby, shrugging her shoulders, “I’d like to shake that old trumpeter sometimes.”
“And sometimes you’d like to pat him to sleep, wouldn’t you?” said Mavis. “When cousin Hortensia’s telling us stories, and he says it’s bed-time.”
Miss Hortensia looked at Mavis in some surprise, but she seemed very pleased too. It was not often Mavis spoke so brightly.
“Suppose you use up the half-hour in telling me stories,” said their cousin. “Mine will keep till after tea. What were all the adventures you met with?”
“Oh,” said Ruby, “it was too queer. Did you know, cousin, that there was a short way home from the sea-shore near old Adam’s cottage? Such a queer way;” and she went on to describe the path between the rocks.
Miss Hortensia looked very puzzled.
“Who showed it to you?” she said; for Ruby, in her helter-skelter way, had begun at the end of the story, without speaking of the boy Winfried, or explaining why they—or she—had been so curious about the old man whom the villagers called a wizard.
“It was the boy,” Mavis replied; “such a nice boy, cousin Hortensia, with funny bluey eyes—at least they’re sometimes blue.”