“Yes, maybe when I am a gray-haired old woman; not before. Don't scold now, Richard; you know very well you, and the passengers beside, would give your ears to climb a fence as gracefully as I did just now. There, won't you hand me my basket, please?”
He did so, and then, with a gentle smile, took the white, ungloved fingers in his.
“My darling Annie, remember”—
“Stage waits,” cried the driver.
So Richard Bermon's lecture was cut short; he had only time to bid his merry young sister good-bye. Soon he was lost to sight.
Annie Bermon hurried down the lane, swinging her light willow basket carelessly on her arm, and humming a joyous air all the way. Just as she opened the outer lawn gate, the great Newfoundland dog came towards her with a low growl; it changed directly though into a glad bark.
“I was sure you would know me, you dear old fellow; but I can't stop to talk to you just now.” And Annie patted his silken ears, and then went on to the house, the dog bounding on before her, as though he had found an old playmate.
John Greylston rubbed his eyes. No, it was not a dream. His darling niece was really by his side, her soft curls touching his cheek; he flung his arms tightly around her.
“Dear child, I was just dreaming about you; how glad I am to see your sweet face again.”
“I was sure you would be, Uncle John,” she answered gayly, “and so I started off from home this morning just, in a hurry. I took a sudden fancy that I would come, and they could not keep me. But where is dear Aunt Margaret? Oh, I know what I will do. I'll just run in and take her by surprise. How well you look, uncle—so noble and grand too; by the way, I always think King Robert Bruce must just have been such a man like you.”