THE BRUSHWOOD BOY
the butler, and so on down to the under-keeper, who had been dog-boy in Georgie's youth, and called him "Master Georgie," and was reproved by the groom who had taught Georgie to ride.
"Not a thing changed," he sighed contentedly, when the three of them sat down to dinner in the late sun-light, while the rabbits crept out upon the lawn below the cedars, and the big trout in the ponds by the home paddock rose for their evening meal.
"Our changes are all over, dear," cooed the mother; "and now I am getting used to your size and your tan (you 're very brown, Georgie), I see you have n't changed in the least. You 're exactly like the pater."
The father beamed on this man after his own heart,—"youngest major in the army, and should have had the V. C, sir,"—and the butler listened with his professional mask off when Master Georgie spoke of war as it is waged to-day, and his father cross questioned. They went out on the terrace to smoke among the roses, and the shadow of the old house lay long across the wonderful English foliage, which is the only living green in the world.
"Perfect! By Jove, it 's perfect!" Georgie was looking at the round-bosomed woods beyond the home paddock, where the white pheasant boxes were ranged; and the golden air was full of a hundred sacred scents and sounds. Georgie felt his father's arm tighten in his.
"It 's not half bad—but hodie mihi, cras tibi, is n't it? I suppose you 'll be turning up some fine day with a girl under your arm, if you have n't one now, eh?"
[412]
