Nancy got up with me, and we had a fine farewell kissing. The boys were up too; Harry out of compliment to me, dressed in a nightcap and a flowered morning-gown; and Will out of compliment to his kennel, for whose sake he always rose at daybreak. He was dressed in his old scarlet coat, he carried a whip in one hand, and half-a-dozen dogs followed at his heels.
“Remember, sweet Kitty,” whispered Harry, with a ceremonious bow, “it is but for a twelvemonth.”
“Only a year,” said Will. “Heart up, my pretty!”
They heard what each had said, and they were looking at each other puzzled when I drove away.
“What did you mean, Will?” asked Harry, when the cart was out of sight, “by saying only a year?”
“I meant what I meant,” he replied doggedly. “Perhaps you know, and perhaps you don’t.”
“Of course I know,” said Harry. “The question is, how do you know?”
“Well,” replied Will, “that is a pretty odd question, to be sure. How could I help knowing?”
“I think,” said Harry, red in the face, “that some one has been injudicious in telling any one.”
Will laughed.