They were going through a barley field just then, where the foot-track was so narrow that they were obliged to walk singly between the sea of ripening, drooping ears on either side.
“I wonder,” repeated Jack, “what sort of grand things that old fellow did so many years ago.”
The summer breeze was whispering amongst the gently swaying barley, and Phoena was following closely upon Jack’s heels, so that she might well have heard his musings, and answered them, but nevertheless the words which presently rang in Jack’s ears in reply to his own questioning came neither from Phoena’s lips, nor were they borne on the pleasant breeze, and yet no words ever sounded more distinctly, at least so far as Jack’s hearing was concerned.
“Whatever grand things that old knight might have done,” the voice said, “I’ll tell you what he never would have done. He would never have bullied a poor weakly fellow as you bullied Andrew yesterday, or held his peace and not owned up when his victim was suffering from the consequences.”
“Bother,” said Jack, audibly, “I don’t believe he would have, either.”
As they came through the porch into the house-place the children ran up against Dr. Forbes and Mrs. Busson in grave consultation.
“No, indeed! indeed!” the latter was saying, her usually bright face clouded with distress, “I can’t think, Dr. Forbes, how the poor child could have come by such a chill, for as to letting him sleep in an unaired bed, why, sir, you know me better than to believe——”
But Jack broke in.
“It was my fault, doctor,” he said; “we thought we’d give him a lesson, so we ducked him in the stream yesterday. Is he awfully bad?”
Jack’s voice grew shaky with the last words, and he was red to the tips of his ears.