“I say,” cried Phil, catching sight of the net, “can’t you leave those poor beggars in peace for to-day at least?”
“Yes,” chimed in Jack, “and I call it awful hard lines on Fay; I bet she doesn’t want to go swinking after you all this hot morning. As it is, she’s had to feed your old gold-fish already, and clean your precious canary. Why don’t you strike, Fay, and tell Miss Annie to look after his own toys?”
“Because Fay always wants peace at any price,” put in the Scarlet Runner, more promptly than pacifically. “But I wouldn’t do—”
“Never mind, Di,” broke in Faith, knowing well how swiftly such gathering clouds might develop into storms, “we’re only going out for a little time, because I must come home and write to mother.”
“Oh! you good Faith,” came in a chorus of heartfelt applause.
The heroism involved in writing a letter to-day roused general admiration. But steady-going Faith generally put duty before pleasure; sometimes, it must be owned, to her companions’ regret, notably to Di’s. For the latter had been known to declare that she wished the man who had invented such worrying words as “duty and obedience” had been stung to death by hornets. But then, as Di’s long-suffering nurse had remarked more than once during that young person’s earlier career, “Miss Diana was a handful.”
CHAPTER V.
BOAR HUNTING.
THAT first morning at Gaybrook passed like a flash of lightning. There was so much to be seen and explored. From the poultry-yard, where its scores of feather inmates held a world of delight, to the water-meadows, which formed the limit of the farm boundaries, and were so designated because they were intersected by the little river Gay.
Here an old punt proved very attractive to the elder boys, when they tired of the hay-field. To the copse, adjoining the water-meadows, Di retired, partly to practise a little climbing in private—an exercise, which to her regret, she could not well pursue in the London Square garden—and also animated by the hope of surprising some big nest—a pheasant’s perhaps.
Phoena was lost to sight amongst tall rows of peas and French beans in the garden. “Probably preaching sermons to the bees,” Phil declared. Hubert and Marygold agreed to join forces. They started by conscientiously trying to secure a “personal interview” with everything in feathers in the farmyard, Hubert doing his utmost to work the scarlet-wattled turkey-cock into an ungovernable rage. That pleasure exhausted, this young pair next betook themselves to a vast apple-orchard.