"Further yet," said Robert Sherwood's voice from a distance.
Ascending the fourth flight of stairs, they entered the square, unfinished room called the Observatory. Here sat the boy who had caused this anxiety, surrounded by a chaos of tools, blocks of wood, pieces of tin, and coils of rope.
"Now, there!" cried he, bending his elbows into acute angles, and trying to hide his work in his leather apron. "What made you come in my shop? My pa said—"
"My son," said Mrs. Clifford, trying not to smile at the boy's perplexed gestures and eager attempts to put things out of sight, "if you had only told us you kept shop in the roof of the house, we would have been spared this needless alarm."
"Yes, Horace Clifford," said Grace, loftily, "I do despise to see anyone so secret and mysterious."
"I wonders we didn't think he was whittling sticks some-place," said
Barbara, glancing admiringly at Horace.
"Well, now you know," said the boy, fidgeting. "You've found me, and
I wasn't lost; now can't you go off?"
"Pretty talk to your ma," cried Grace.
"O, ma, I don't mean you. But I just don't want anybody to see this thing I'm making till it's plum done."
"Plum done!" repeated Grace; "where did you pick up such droll words? and why will you twist your mouth so, Horace?"