blooming little monkey dangling from two boughs,” as she put it, when we swung her along on our arms. We laughed and said many preposterous things. George wanted to kiss her at parting, but she tipped him under the chin and said, “Sweet!” as one does to a canary. Then she laughed with her tongue between her teeth, and ran indoors.
“She is a little devil,” said he.
We took the long way home by Greymede, and passed the dark schools.
“Come on,” said he, “let’s go in the ‘Ram Inn,’ and have a look at my cousin Meg.”
It was half past ten when he marched me across the road and into the sanded passage of the little inn. The place had been an important farm in the days of George’s grand-uncle, but since his decease it had declined, under the governance of the widow and a man-of-all-work. The old grand-aunt was propped and supported by a splendid grand-daughter. The near kin of Meg were all in California, so she, a bonny delightful girl of twenty-four, stayed near her grand-ma.
As we tramped grittily down the passage, the red head of Bill poked out of the bar, and he said as he recognised George:
“Good-ev’nin’—go forward—’er’s non abed yit.”
We went forward, and unlatched the kitchen door. The great-aunt was seated in her little, round-backed armchair, sipping her “night-cap.”
“Well, George, my lad!” she cried, in her querulous voice. “Tha’ niver says it’s thai, does ter? That’s com’n for summat, for sure, else what brings thee ter see me?”
