“I reckon you were,” laughed John. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a two-year-old.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawned, and smiled contentedly up into the other’s face. “This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes; great! I wish I was going to stay for more of it.”
“Oh, you’re not going to-morrow,” Phillip replied.
“I think I am, though.” After a pause he continued: “There’s just one thing that can keep me, Phil, and I’m greatly afraid that it isn’t going to happen.”
“What is it? I’ll make it happen!”
“You couldn’t,” laughed John, moving toward the door.
“But—— Here, hold on! What is it?” cried Phillip. But John’s footsteps were dying away in the hall, and Phillip moved as though to follow, hesitated, yawned again, closed his eyes sleepily and presently dozed off once more. A great bumble-bee, lumbering majestically about in a new spring suit of black velvet, spied the gay-hued colour of the neglected magazine and settled down upon a lithographed spray of apple blossoms with an anticipatory boom of pleasure. There followed a moment of pregnant silence. Then he arose, quivering with amazement and disgust, and circled off into the golden air, buzzing loud tidings of the deception.
The sun rose higher and higher and the shadow of the house crept inch by inch across the portico floor. In the trees the tireless birds sang on and on, allegro, adagio, scherzo, over and over, a pæan of exquisite joy. At the stable the colt lay asleep in the paddock, and before the door, with a half-cleaned bridle over his knees, Will slumbered peacefully in the sunshine. From the cool, dim hall came eleven soft and silvery chimes from the old rosewood clock.