At that moment cousin Sam Shipton entered with an eager, excited look.
“It’s all settled,” he said, taking Robin by the hand.
“What is settled?” asked Mrs Wright, somewhat anxiously.
“Mother, don’t be angry,” said Robin, laying his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and speaking tenderly, “I meant to have told you the moment I came in to-day, but uncle Rik with his argumentative spirit drove it and everything else except cables out of my head—”
“Well, but what is it?” interrupted Madge impatiently; “why do you keep us in suspense?”
“I have some prospect, mother, of being appointed to go with a telegraph-laying party to the East, but Sam is wrong when he says it is all settled. Whatever he may have to tell us, it is by no means settled until I have your and father’s opinion.”
“Well, you horribly good but ungrateful boy,” returned Sam, “it is at least settled as far as I have do with it. I have made application at head-quarters, and they are willing to take you on my recommendation. Moreover, I am myself going.”
“You’re joking, Sam!” exclaimed Robin, with a flush of joy; “I thought you had neither intention nor desire to go far from home.”
“You thought wrong, Robin. I always had desire, and now have intention—and I go as second in command. So, Miss Mayland,” he continued, turning to Madge, “I shan’t be able to continue those electrical lectures which you were so fond of once, but have lately seemed to grow tired of.”
Madge was at that tender age of budding womanhood when sensitive girls are apt to misunderstand a jest. She blushed, stammered something, then forced a laugh, and turned to speak to Robin; but Sam perceived that tears rose to her eyes, and he instantly sank in his own estimation to the condition of a loathsome reptile.