“And why didn’t you bring them?” pursued the chatelaine, whose earnestness was in strong contrast with her sister’s nonchalance.
“Because they were dead,” replied Stangrove, laconically; “and now, my dear, please to give me some tea. ‘Sufficient for the day’—and so on.”
“Accidents will happen,” interposed Jack, politely. “It is like more important calamities and crimes, a matter of average.”
“Just so,” said Stangrove, gratefully; “and though I can’t help worrying myself at a small loss, such as this, I know that the annual expense from this cause varies very little.”
“There were wolves in Arcadia, were not there?” demanded the young lady. “They ate a shepherd now and then, I suppose. If the dingoes would look upon it in that light, what a joy it would be, eh?”
“I could cheerfully see them battening upon the carcase of that lazy ruffian Strawler,” he very vengefully made answer.
“My love!” said Mrs. Stangrove, mildly, “the children will be in directly—would you mind reading prayers directly you finish?”
“Well—ahem,” said the bereaved proprietor, rather doubtfully; “perhaps you might as well read this morning, Mr. Redgrave and I have a long way to go—what are you laughing at, Maud, you naughty girl?”
“Don’t forget to have old Mameluke got in for me, Mark, and to-morrow I will go sheep-hunting with you myself, if little Bopeep continues unsuccessful, and in an unchristian state of mind, unable to say his prayers. I didn’t think the fencing question involved so high a moral gain before.”
Breakfast over, two fresh hacks were brought up (Stangrove was a great horse-breeder, and Jack’s eye had been offended as he rode up with troops of mares and foals), and forth they fared for a day on the run, and a contingent search for the lost flock.