Part 8 (1/2)

”Go on wid you now, Miss Clodagh!” she cried. ”Sure 'tis a pair of ye that's there. I'm out wid ye.”

”But the griddle cake, Hannah?”

”Let Betsy over at Mrs. a.s.shlin's make griddle cake for ye. Maybe she wouldn't put up wid Masther Larry as aisy as me.”

”Of course Betsy would make a griddle cake at any time,” said Clodagh promptly; ”only we couldn't eat it--after yours.”

For a moment Hannah made no response; then she gave another disdainful whisk to her ap.r.o.n and attacked the saucepan with renewed force.

Clodagh said nothing, but took a step forward. Her cheeks were bright and her eyes danced with mischief and amus.e.m.e.nt. As her foot touched the paving stones of the yard, Hannah raised her head.

”I suppose 'twill be at wan ye'll be wantin' the lunch?” she said in a suddenly lowered and mollified voice; and Clodagh responded with a laugh of triumph and delight.

Outside in the suns.h.i.+ne of the yard, she laughed again.

”Hannah is an old duck!” she said. ”She is always getting as cross as two sticks, and then forgetting all about it. n.o.body could help teasing her. But where's Larry gone to? Larry! Larry!”

There was a pause, a stamping of horse's hoofs, and the sound of a voice whispering affectionate injunctions to an unseen animal; then young Laurence a.s.shlin emerged from the stables, leading his chestnut cob.

He was a well-made, long-limbed boy of fourteen, with skin as smooth and eyes as clear as Clodagh's own.

”Hullo, Clo!” he exclaimed. ”That was a straight shot, wasn't it? Was she mad?”

”Pretty mad,” responded Clodagh. ”This is Mr. Milbanke. He came last night.”

Young a.s.shlin eyed the stranger frankly and without embarra.s.sment.

”You're not at the meet?” he said with involuntary surprise. ”I'd be there, only mother doesn't let me hunt yet. She thinks I'd break my neck or something,” he laughed. ”But I'll go to every meet within twenty miles when I'm a man,” he added. ”There's nothing as good as hunting--except sailing. Are you much of a sailor?”

Milbanke looked back into the bright, fearless eyes and healthy, spirited face, and again a touch of aloofness, of age, damped him.

There was a buoyancy in this boy and girl, a zest, an enthusiasm outside which he stood the undeniable alien.

”Yes, I am fond of the sea,” he responded; ”but probably not as you are fond of it.”

Try as he might to be natural and pleasant, his speech sounded stilted, his words staid.

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

”Didn't know there were two ways of doing it,” he said, rubbing his face against the cob's sleek neck.

But Clodagh came to her guest's rescue.

”Larry doesn't deserve any credit for liking the sea,” she said. ”His father was a sailor. You go on to the fields, Larry,” she added; ”you'll find Nance waiting there. I'll saddle Polly in a second, and be after you with Mr. Milbanke. Run now! you're only wasting time.”

Larry hesitated for a moment, then he nodded.

”All right!” he acquiesced. ”Only don't be long.”

Instantly he was gone, Clodagh handed her whip to Milbanke and darted into the coach-house, reappearing with a saddle over her arm and a bridle swinging from her shoulder.