“For what work? My next neighbour has a five-year-old, Cecilia’s half-brother, for sale. He’s a beauty, black as the devil. The only thing against him is, he’s not broke to harness. They ask a loud price, too. It will make you stare.”
“Not very easy to make me stare,” said Waddy easily. “A saddle horse is just my affair. We’ll look at him in the morning, and if he suits, ‘Ho for cavaliers!’”
During all this talk, Mr. Waddy had not failed to observe the exquisite beauty of the country they were whizzing through. There is nothing so charming, suburbanly, as the region about Boston, and to him all was garden, for these were spots where his rosy-houred youth had taken its truant pleasures. Fifteen years had built fences of exclusion round many lovely groves, where he had chestnutted; the old orchards were cut down or neglected; many things had changed, for the city was steadily growing countrywards. He had only time to make hasty observations as they passed. Tootler would have been glad to pull up for larger view of fine house or finished grounds or lovely rural landscape, but that imperious shower said no. Presently they turned off the highroad into a sylvan lane, between tall hedges. A desultory avenue of elms shaded it. On one side was a gravel walk, along which a little girl was driving a hoop towards them.
“Jump in, Cissy,” called Tootler, pulling in the mare.
A charming bright-eyed damsel clambered in and began to fondle her father. Her smile had the same bright, cheerful, magical charm as his.
“This is my friend, Mr. Waddy,” said he. “Give him a kiss—or, better still, one for every year he has been away from his friends.”
And again Mr. Waddy felt his heart glow with a warmth almost youthful as the fresh red lips touched his.