Presently they re-appeared, scampering across the paddock, Jack and Phil leading a little Welsh pony between them, with Hubert perched on its back.
“For it’s saddled, and bridled, and shod, you see,” cried Marygold, dancing round Gaston in wild delight, “and though it’s not much bigger than Dragon, the watch-dog, it’s dreffully strong, and goes very fast.”
“And it’s to go back with you to France,” put in Hubert, “because, Phoena says, a real knight must have a steed.”
Gaston was beside himself with joy and astonishment.
Ever since he had seen the boys ride, the possession of a pony had been the theme of his wildest dreams, and now he could hardly trust his eyes and ears. It seemed as if the fairies, he still loved to believe in, had brought him the fulfilment of his dearest wish, straight from fairyland.
The weeks at Gaybrook had been mostly sad and sorrow-stained, but now this one golden day would gild all his memories of the English farm for ever.
“But, but,” he cried, “who gives it me, who did think of it?”
“We have all joined together to get it for you,” said Phil, “infants and all.”
“And Andrew sent all his year’s savings out of the bank,” said Faith.
“Poor Andrew,” said Gaston, deeply touched, “but—but how came the idea to your heads, how came it then?”