WE WERE WALKING ON SLOWLY.
We were walking on slowly to the hut, and just as I had replied, 'I think it is,' we came in sight of it, and something—I don't know what—made us both stop and look at this favourite spot of ours. It was so pretty to-day—perhaps that was it. A sudden clearing brought us out of the wood, through which we had been following a well-worn, narrow path, and the bright, soft light of the early afternoon—of an April afternoon—was falling on the quaint little place. It was more like two or three huts than one, and indeed it really did consist of three or four rooms, which we children had been allowed to consider our own quarters, and to decorate and improve according to our fancy and taste. To begin with, it had been a bathing-house, of two rooms, partly of stone, partly of wood, standing on a little plateau, just at the edge of the pine trees, and well above the sea, so that even in stormy weather the water could not possibly reach it; besides which, I must say that stormy weather in the shape of high tides or great waves never did show itself in this cove. Often and often we had sat there, listening to the boom and crash at the foot of the cliffs, round at the other side, as snug and peaceful as if we had been miles inland.
And the sands that sloped down from our hut were just perfection, both as to prettiness and niceness for bathing. They shone to-day like gold and silver mixed in the sunshine; and the hut itself, though queerly shaped, looked pretty too. We had managed, in spite of the sandy soil, to get some hardy creepers to grow over it on the inland side, and we had sunk some old tubs filled with good soil in front of the porch—for there was a porch—in which flourished some nice, bushy evergreens, and there was even a tiny terrace with long flower-boxes, where, for six months of the year at least, geraniums and fuchsias, and for part of the time, nice, big, white and yellow and straw-coloured daisies seemed quite at home. It was a lovely place for children to have of their own; and the year before, papa had added two other rooms to it, for our photographing—iron rooms, these were, and not at all ugly, though that would not have mattered much, as they were at the back, beside the little kitchen, where we were allowed to cook our luncheons and teas when we were spending a whole day on the shore.
'Dods!' I exclaimed, as we stood there in silence, admiring our mansion, 'we must see about the flowers for the long boxes. It's getting quite time, for Bush has settled all about the bedding-out plants—he told me so yesterday—so he'll be able to tell us what he has to spare.'
I spoke in utter forgetfulness—but it only lasted a moment—only, that is to say, till I caught the expression of Geordie's mournful blue eyes—he can make them look so mournful when he likes—fixed upon me in silent reproach.
'Ida,' he said at last, 'what are you thinking of? What's the use?'
'Oh, Dods! oh, dear, dear Doddie!' I cried—I don't think I quite knew what I was saying,—'forgive me. Oh, how silly and unfeeling I seem! Oh, Doddie!'
And then—I am not now ashamed to tell it, for I really had been keeping it in at the cost of a good deal of forcing myself—I just left off trying to be brave or self-controlled or anything, and burst out crying—regular loud crying. I am afraid I almost howled.
George looked at me once more, then for a minute or so he turned away. I am not sure if he was crying, anyway he wasn't howling. But in an instant or two, while I was rubbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, and feeling rather, or very ashamed, I felt something come round my neck, crushing it up so tightly that I was almost choked, and then Doddie's voice in my ear, very gruff, very gruff indeed of course, saying—
'Poor Ida, poor old Ida! I know it's quite as bad or worse for you. For a man can always go out into the world and fight his way, and have some fun however hard he works.'