Tom Slade stood apart gazing with brimming, joyous eyes at the picture of which he had been the artist. He had performed his great exploit and now he seemed on the point of tiptoeing out of the room when Wilfred caught him in the act.
“This is just a family party,” said Tom.
“You thought you could sneak away, didn’t you?” said Wilfred.
“I think you’re one of our little family party,” Arden said prettily.
“I was just going to bang around and see if I can find any more Cowells,” Tom said. “What do you think of me as a stalker and trailer?”
“Oh, just to think,” said Mrs. Cowell, gazing still with incredulity and yet with weeping tenderness at the son whom she had not seen since childhood, “just to think that Wilfred saved his life and then Tom——”
“He hasn’t told us yet,” said Arden.
So then Tom and Rosleigh together pieced out for them the tale which ended in this happy climax. Mrs. Cowell clung to her son as if she feared he might run away, kissing him at intervals during the much interrupted narrative, as if to assure herself of his reality.
It was a strange story, how a small, bewildered child, deserted by a band of gypsies near the little village of Shady Vale across the mountain had wandered onto the premises of “Auntie Sally,” as the village knew her twenty years ago. That was a lucky trespass. For Auntie Sally was eccentric and kindly and lived alone.
After first trying to shoo the little boy away with her kitchen apron and a churn stick, she had weakened so far as to tell him that he had a very dirty face, which she proceeded to wash with disapproving vigor. The poor little boy swayed like a reed beneath her vigorous assaults until his face was as shiny as one of Auntie Sally’s milk pans. That was the first thing she did for him—to wash his face. Then she gave him a piece of mince pie and put him to bed.