“Only kissin’ your ’and,” said Bobbie confusedly.
“We don’t kiss hands down in these parts,” said the large young lady. “That ain’t Kentish fashion.”
“I like you,” remarked the boy shyly.
“My goodness!” said the angel with affectation of much concern, “this won’t do. I mustn’t be catched alone with a young man what says things like that. I’d better be seeing about taking you back to the home, I reckon.”
The curate not returning (having, as it proved, flown away to a neighbouring parish and forgotten all about the boy), this course had to be adopted, and the two walked back along the road on the edge of the white cliffs—Bobbie in a state of proud ecstasy, which reached its highest point, when a boy, in passing them, called out to him, “Why doan’ you marry the girl?” The angel herself spoke of the amount that the starting of a household cost; of the relative advantages of a house with folding doors but no bay windows, compared with a house having bay windows, but no folding doors; all in a manner that seemed to the boy, strutting by her side, highly encouraging, and, under the circumstances, as much as on such brief acquaintance a man could reasonably expect. At the home, any trouble that might have arisen by reason of the boy’s extended absence was removed by the fact that the angel had once been a highly-esteemed servant at the Institution; the Lady Superintendent met them without a frown. The large young lady found herself lugged into the kitchen by two of the white-aproned maids for a chat, and when presently she looked in to say good night, at the reading-room where Bobbie was finishing a sea story, she kissed him, to the great envy of the other convalescent young students.
“Serve us all alike, Miss,” begged a lad with crutches.
“You be quiet,” ordered Bobbie, “unless you want your head punched.”
“Give me ’alf a one,” urged the lad with crutches.
“No fear,” said the angel cheerfully. She nodded her head to Bobbie. “He’s my young man.”
“Should have thought you’d got better taste, Miss.”