It was past the noon hour, and the air was drowsy and still. The voices and laughter of the nut gatherers came back to them from the deeper woods in the distance, and the crackling of the fire where Bertrand attended to the roasting of the corn near by, and the gentle sound of the lapping water on the river bank came to them out of the stillness.
“I wonder if Mr. Walters tied the horses good!” said his wife. “Seems as if one’s got loose. Don’t you hear a horse galloping?”
“They’re all there eating,” said Mary, rising and looking about. “Some one’s coming, away off there over the bluff; see?”
“I wonder, now! My, but he rides well. He must be coming here. I hope there’s nothing the matter. It looks like––it might be Peter Junior, only he’s here already.”
“It’s––it’s––no, it can’t be––it is! It’s––Bertrand, Bertrand! Why, it’s Richard!” cried Mary Ballard, as the horseman came toward them, loping smoothly along under the trees, now in the sunlight and now in the shadow. He leaped from the saddle, and, throwing the rein over a knotted limb, walked rapidly toward them, holding out a hand to each, as Bertrand and Mary hurried forward.
“I couldn’t let you good folks have one of these fine old times without me.”
“Why, when did you come? Oh, Richard! It’s good to see you again,” said Mary.
“I came this morning. I went up to my uncle’s and then to your house and found you all away, and learned that you were here and my twin with you, so here I am. How are the children? All grown up?”
“Almost. Come and sit down and give an account of yourself to Mary, while I try to get hold of the rest,” said Bertrand.