“She is always having the fellows for something. When we have not Latin we have geography. And we don’t often have Latin. Russell, he’s busy, or he’s got a headache. The fellows say—”
“What little gossips! Tell me what Latin you have learned, Jock.”
“Oh, nothing at all. Penn-a, penna-ah—or perhaps it’s penn-ah—penn-a, I never can remember. It is far easier just to say pen, as you do, Lucy. And then we have counting; two times three is six, three times three— I’ll tell you that another time; the pony jumps about when I try to do arithmetic in my head.”
“But they are always very good to you, Jock? you are happy there?” This was the burden of all their talks, the constantly-recurring chorus.
This time Jock, who usually said, “Oh, yes,” with indifference to the question, laughed, which was rare with him.
“She says I am always to say Mr. Bertie is very kind,” says Jock. “That’s Russell, you know: the fellows all call him Russell. She says, when you ask, I am to say he takes great pains with me.”
Lucy was perplexed, but it was not right to show her perplexity, she thought.
“And does he?” she said.
“I don’t know what it means, he never says anything at all. Do you think, if we were to ride long enough, we could ride, ride, right into the sun, Lucy? there where it touches the heath—look! The sky must touch somewhere, if we could only ride as far.”
“Let us try,” said Lucy.