"On the contrary, it is my very glad privilege. I have often felt that my youth has been left behind a little oversoon—I am getting, I fancy, a trifle stiff and narrowed. You must lead me, Tommy, into the world of action and sport—we will play games together—hide and go seek. You must buy me a hoop, and we will play marbles and cricket—" and the poet smiled complacently over his spectacles.
Tommy wriggled a little uneasily in his chair, and looked out of the window.
The trees were bending to the morning wind, which sang through the budding branches and hovered over the garden daffodils. Away beyond the lawn and the meadows the hills rose clear and bracing to the eye, and through a chain of willows sped the wavering blue gleam of sunny waters.
"I—I'm an awful duffer at games," said Tommy, with a blush on his brown cheeks, and horrid visions of the poet and himself bowling hoops.
The poet drew a deep breath of relief.
"You love nature, dear boy—the sights and sounds and mysteries of the hedgerow and the stream—is it not so?"
"Yes," said Tommy, dubiously. "I—I'm rather a hot shot with a catapult."
The poet gazed out across the garden. A small green mound beneath the chestnut tree marked the grave of the fond Delicia—a tribute to Tommy's skill.
Involuntarily, the poet sighed.
Tommy looked up from the marmalade.