"I'm Madge Chantrey," said a shy voice.
Tommy looked up eagerly.
"Why, then I must have seen you in church--but you looked so different
you know, so jolly--jolly different."
Madge laughed.
"I've often seen you, in an eton jacket, with a very big collar, and you
always went to sleep in the sermon, and forgot to get up when the vicar
said 'And now.'"
Tommy grinned.
Then an inspiration seized him.
"I say; let's go on to the mill, an' we'll pot water-rats on the way,
an' get some tea there. He's an awful good sort, is the miller. His
name's Berrill, and he's ridden to London and back in a day, and it's a
hundred and fifty miles, and he can carry two bags of wheat at once, and
there's sure to be some rats up at Becklington End, and it's only about
three o'clock--and it's such an absolutely ripping day."
He stopped and pulled up some grass.
"You might as well," he concluded, in a voice which implied that her
choice was of no consequence to him.
Her black eyes danced, and she swung her hat thoughtfully round her
finger.
"It would be rather nice," she said. "But there is Miss Gerald, you
know; she will wonder where I am."
"Never mind. I'll bring you home."
And down the chain of water-meadows from one valley to another they
wandered through the April afternoon, till the old mill-pool lay before
them deep and shadowy beneath the green, wet walls. A long gleam of
light lay athwart its surface, dying slowly as the sunset faded.
"It is tea-time," said Tommy.
"Poor Miss Gerald," murmured Madge.
"She's all right," replied Tommy, cheerfully. "I expect she's jolly well
enjoying herself."
* * * * *
As I passed the poet's gate I saw him pacing the lawn, and hailed him.
"Have you enjoyed the morning?" I asked.
He looked at me a little suspiciously.
"You haven't seen the vicar?" he queried.