It was one day in April when James Murchison came rattling over the Roxton cobbles in his motor-car, to slacken speed suddenly in Chapel Gate at the sight of a red Dutch bonnet, a green frock, and a pair of white-socked legs on the edge of the pavement. The Dutch bonnet belonged to his daughter Gwen, a flame-haired dame of four, demure and serious as any dowager. The child had a chip-basket full of daffodils in her hand, and she seemed quite alone, a most responsible young person.
A minute gloved hand had gone up with the gravity of a constable’s paw signalling a lawbreaker to stop. James Murchison steered to the footway, and regarded Miss Gwen with a surprised twinkle.
“Hallo, what are you doing here?”
Miss Gwen ignored the ungraceful familiarity of the inquisitive parent.
“I’ll drive home, daddy,” she said, calmly.
“Oh—you will! Where’s nurse?”
“Mending Jack’s stockings.” And the lady with the daffodils dismissed the question with contempt.
Murchison laughed, and helped the vagrant into the car.
“Shopping, I see,” he observed, refraining from adult priggery, and catching the spirit of Miss Gwen’s adventuresomeness.
“Yes. I came out by myself. I’d five pennies in my money-box. Nurse was so busy. The daffies are for mother.”