I'll be at the boat-house at eleven."
He was; and Nan was not long after. The lake stretched for about a mile
in the squire's park, and many were the happy hours that they had spent
upon it.
It was a day of perfect summer, and they drifted through it in sublime
enjoyment. Jerry soon discovered that the girl's marriage and anything
remotely connected with it were subjects to be avoided, and as he had no
great wish himself to investigate in that direction he found small
difficulty in confining himself to more familiar ground. Without effort
they resumed the old friendly intercourse that the girl's rash step had
threatened to cut short, and long before the end of the afternoon they
were as intimate as they had ever been.
"You mustn't go in yet," insisted Jerry, when a distant clock struck
seven. "Wait another couple of hours. There's plenty of food left. And
the moonrise will be grand to-night."
Nan did not need much persuading. She had always loved the lake, and
Jerry's society was generally congenial. He had, moreover, been taking
special pains to please her, and she was quite willing to be pleased.
She consented, therefore, and Jerry punted her across to her favourite
nook for supper. She thoroughly enjoyed the repast, Jerry's ideas of
what a picnic-basket should contain being of a decidedly lavish order.
The meal over, he took up his banjo and waxed sentimental.
Pages:
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149