H. B. Marriott Watson

“ When I fish, there's the feeling of the stream, the play of the shadows, the long lush meadows——"
"What a rhapsodist is here!" interjected Forrester.
"It's a fact. I'm not so keen on the sport as you think."
"Miss Mitchell-Dene?" Forrester appealed for support.
"I'm no sportswoman," she said. "I don't like worms."
Frank went off into laughter; it tickled him to think that anyone imagined that you fished with worms. He would as soon have cut off his hand or shot a fox.
"What's this?" said Sievwright suddenly, as the servant deposited a plate in front of him. "Good Heavens!" ”

“ He sighed, for Miss Mitchell-Dene had an effect on him. He was sensitive to many influences, and beauty among them. He was by way of being an authority, a refuge in that cousin's house, for Mrs. Sievwright was linnet-headed; and the housekeeper, meeting him on the staircase, consulted him.
"The child won't eat, sir, so I've had him put to bed. The poor thing's over-tired and cold."
Charles Forrester recognised the feminine wisdom, and offered courteous praise, as was his wont. It was a trait which had made him liked in life. ”

“ It was probable that Sievwright had forgotten the child. "Oh, give him to the servants," he said; and, as he did so, Miss Mitchell-Dene came on the scene. "What a pretty child!" she exclaimed. "Whose is he?"
"This deponent knoweth not," said Frank, smiling. The man and the girl exchanged glances; they were fond of each other in the way in which modern Society allows people to be, with unadmitted intimacy, so to speak. Sievwright rang a bell.
"This must be one of the villagers' children," he said to the respectful housekeeper. "The poor kid's wet and tired. ”

“ I don't think they'll come, because they're mortally afraid of their new 'shuvver.'"
"The 'shuvver' is the modern cook, a tyrant," said Forrester, putting his finger in his book.
"All servants are the same," said Mrs. Sievwright. "They were bothering me about some child—oh, yes, you spoke of it, Charles—a gipsy brat."
"It wasn't a gipsy," said Frank suddenly. "It was a pretty fair kid. I don't much take to those dark things—overseas alien business. This was a blue-eyed kid—a village child, I should say—regular Saxon."
"There are a great many," murmured Mrs. Sievwright. ”

“ Oh, what is it?" asked Miss Mitchell-Dene.
"He sees something," answered back Forrester.
"What is it? What is it?" she repeated. She was standing on the marge of the water distracted.
"It's a body—a man's," said one of the servants.
"Nonsense!" said Sievwright. "It's rubbish brought down by the river and caught there. What man?"
Suddenly Miss Mitchell-Dene's voice was heard demanding: "Where's Mr. Christopherson? Where's Mr. Christopherson?"
"Is Frank here?" asked Forrester.
Sievwright answered in the negative.
"We haven't seen him. He's probably searching at the back of the park." ”

“ They're only crackers."
"Help us!" said Elliott.
"No, help me," said Miss Mitchell-Dene. "Give me one, please."
"Do you know, I'd clean forgotten about Christmas," said Frank, as he pulled one with her.
Lady Lataine peevishly pushed Forrester's proffered cracker aside, and demanded dessert. Someone was asking Sievwright a question.
"Just one cigar, and then bridge," the host announced. "We must remember the season, and go slow," he added, smiling, as if he had made an excellent joke.
"Halloa!" said Frank suddenly, staring towards the door, which was ajar. "What the—why, it's the kid!" ”

“ She laughed. "Theatres, balls, bridge—ask me another."
"Why should I ask you anything? I don't know myself," he said. "But I'm pretty sure all our definitions need revision."
"Don't say that thing about life being tolerable but for its pleasures," she begged. ”

“ Frank stared. "You mean the man who—— Oh, what rot!" He turned away almost irritably.
"It's Christmas Eve," murmured Miss Mitchell-Dene.
Mrs. Bledsoe looked at her in a puzzled way.
"We must find the kid," she heard Frank say. "Sievwright, get some of your servants out."
He had gone out into the verandah as he was, without hat or overcoat, but the others hurriedly made preparations for the search. The snow was mostly gone beyond the precincts of the verandah, and all traces of the small feet vanished. ”

“ Bledsoe. Frank repeated the question, but there was no answer, merely the reiterated statement: "Want father."
"He's strayed from one of the gipsy camps," said the third man, Elliott.
"Perhaps he's out of the village somewhere," said Mrs. Bledsoe. "Do you recognise him, Captain Sievwright?"
"Can't see for nuts," said the Master. "Here, Jenkins, come and see if you can make out whose this kid is."
The huntsman approached, marshalling his hounds, and peered into the gloom. "Don't think he belongs to the village, sir," he said at last. "He may do. There are so many children. ”