“No, don’t thank us, we liked doing it,” she returned, rather coolly. “You know we owed you something after all your splendid hospitality, and work is never any trouble to us.”
“But I never saw anything I liked better,” blurted out Dick. “All the fellows will be jealous of me. I am sure I don’t know what Hamilton will say. It was awfully good of you, Nan, and so it was of the others: and if I don’t make it up to you somehow, my name is not Dick:” and he smiled round at them as he spoke. “Fancy putting in all those stitches for me!” he thought to himself.
“We are so glad you are pleased,” returned Nan, with one of her sweet, straightforward looks; “that is what we wanted to give you,—a little surprise on your birthday. Now you must tell us about your other presents.” And Dick, nothing loath, launched into eloquent descriptions of the silver-fitted dressing-case from his mother, and the gun and thorough-bred collie that had been his father’s gifts.
“He is such a fine fellow; I must show him to you this afternoon,” went on Dick, eagerly. “His name is Vigo, and he has such a superb head. Was it not good of the pater? he knew I had a fancy for a collie, and he has been in treaty for one ever so long. Is he not a dear old boy?” cried Dick, rapturously. But he did not tell his friends of the crisp bundle of bank-notes with which Mr. Mayne had enriched his son; only as Dick fingered them lovingly, he wondered what pretty foreign thing he could buy for Nan, and whether her mother would allow her to accept it. 31
After this Nan dismissed him somewhat peremptorily; he must go back to his breakfast, and allow them to do the same.
“Mind you come early,” were Dick’s last words as he waved his straw hat to them. How often the memory of that morning recurred to him as he stood solitarily and thoughtful, contemplating some grand sketch of Alpine scenery!
The snow peaks and blue glaciers melted away before his eyes; in their place rose unbidden a picture framed in green trellis-work, over which roses were climbing.
Fresh girlish faces smiled back at him; the brightest and kindest of glances met his. “Good-bye, Dick; a thousand good wishes from us all.” A slim white hand had gathered a rose-bud for him; how proudly he had worn it all that day! Stop, he had it still; it lay all crushed and withered in his pocket-book. He had written the date under it; one day he meant to show it to her. Oh, foolish days of youth, so prodigal of minor memories and small deeds of gifts, when a withered flower can hold the rarest scent, and in a crumpled roseleaf there is a whole volume of ecstatic meaning! Oh, golden days of youth, never to be surpassed!
Never in the memory of Oldfield had there been a more delicious day.
The sky was cloudless; long purple shadows lay under the elm-trees; a concert of bird-music sounded from the shrubberies: in the green meadows flags were waving, tent-draperies fluttering; the house-doors stood open, showing a flower-decked hall and vista of cool shadowy rooms.