“More likely losing it.”
As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate.
“There, Fred, is ready for me; I must go. I’ll take one look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too, first.”
He quitted the room, and went out into the garden-ground behind the mill. A sweet fringe of young verdure and opening flowers—snowdrop, crocus, even primrose—bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory. Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a little bouquet; he returned to the parlour, pilfered a thread of silk from his sister’s work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid them on Caroline’s desk.
“Now, good-morning.”
“Thank you, Robert; it is pretty; it looks, as it lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky: good-morning.”
He went to the door—stopped—opened his lips as if to speak—said nothing, and moved on. He passed through the wicket, and mounted his horse: in a second, he had flung himself from the saddle again, transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.
“I forgot my gloves,” he said, appearing to take something from the side-table; then, as an impromptu thought, he remarked, “You have no binding engagement at home, perhaps, Caroline?”
“I never have: some children’s socks, which Mrs.
