Magda smiled at him.
“So am I,” she answered.
FOREBODINGS
Gillian was sitting alone in the yew-hedged garden,
her slim fingers busy repairing the holes which appeared
with unfailing regularity in the heels of Coppertop’s
stockings. From the moment he had come to Stockleigh
the number and size of the said holes had increased
appreciably, for, although five weeks had elapsed since
the day of arrival, Coppertop was still revelling
whole-heartedly in the incredible daily delights which,
from the viewpoint of six years old, attach to a farm.
Day after day found him trotting contentedly in the
wake of the stockman, one Ned Honeycott, whom he had
adopted as guide, philosopher, and friend, and whom
he regarded as a veritable fount of knowledge and
the provider of unlimited adventure and entertainment.
It was Honeycott who lifted Coppertop on to the broad
back of the steadiest cart-horse; who had taught him
how to feed calves by dipping his chubby little hand
into a pail of milk and then letting them suck the
milk from off his fingers; who beneficently contrived
that hardly a load of hay was driven to the great
rick without Coppertop’s small person perched
proudly aloft thereon, his slim legs dangling and his
shrill voice joining with that of the carter in an
encouraging “Come-up, Blossom,” to the
bay mare as she plodded forward between the shafts.
Gillian experienced no anxiety with regard to Coppertop’s
safety while he was in Ned Honeycott’s charge,
but she missed the childish companionship, the more
so as she found herself frequently alone these days.
June Storran was naturally occupied about her house
and dairy, while Magda, under Dan Storran’s
tutelage, appeared smitten with an extraordinary interest
in farm management.
It seemed to Gillian that Magda and Dan were in each
other’s company the greater part of the time.
Every day Dan had some suggestion or other to make
for Miss Vallincourt’s amusement. Either
it was: “Would you care to see the hay-loader
at work?” Or: “I’ve just bought
a couple of pedigree Devon cows I’d like to
show you, Miss Vallincourt.” Or, as yesterday:
“There’s a pony fair to be held to-morrow
at Pennaway Bridge. Would you care to drive in
it?” And to each and all of Storran’s suggestions
Magda had yielded a ready assent.
So this morning had seen the two of them setting out
for Pennaway in Dan’s high dog-cart, while Gillian
and June stood together in the rose-covered porch
and watched them depart.
“Wouldn’t you like to have gone?”
Gillian asked on a sudden impulse.
She regretted the question the instant it had passed
her lips, for in the wide-apart blue eyes June turned
upon her there was something of the mute, puzzled
misery of a dog that has received an unexpected blow.
“I couldn’t spare the time,” she
answered hastily. “You see”—the
sensitive colour as usual coming and going quickly
in her face—“Miss Vallincourt is
on a holiday.”
