"We may go now," said mamma. "Shut your eyes, my boy. Now, Chris, you take one hand and I'll take the other. You won't open your eyes till papa tells you, will you, Ferdy?"
"No, no, I promise," said Ferdy.
But his mother looked at him a little anxiously. His little face was pale with excitement and his breath came fast. Yet he was not at all a delicate child, and he had never been ill in his life.
"Dear Ferdy," she said gently, "don't work yourself up so."
Ferdy smiled.
"No, mamma," he replied, though his voice trembled a little. "It is only—something we've tried not to think about, haven't we, Chrissie? Oh," he went on, turning to his sister, and speaking almost in a whisper, "do you think it can be—you know what?"
Christine squeezed the hand she held; that was all she could reply. Though her face had got pink instead of pale like Ferdy's, she was almost as "worked up" as he was.
There was not long to wait, however. Another moment and they were all three standing in the porch, and though Ferdy's eyes were still most tightly and honourably shut, there scarcely needed papa's "Now," or the "Oh!" which in spite of herself escaped his sister, to reveal the delightful secret. For his ears had caught certain tell-tale sounds: a sort of "champing," and a rustle or scraping of the gravel on the drive which fitted in wonderfully with the idea which his brain was full of, though he had honestly tried to follow his sister's advice and not "think about it."
What was the "it"?
A pony—the most beautiful pony, or so he seemed to Ferdy and Christine at any rate—that ever was seen. There he stood, his bright brown coat gleaming in the May sunshine, his eager but kindly eyes looking as if they took it all in as he rubbed his nose on Mr. Ross's coat-sleeve and twisted about a little, as if impatient to be introduced to his new master.