Violet Jacob > Flemington

H
FLEMINGTON
pened, Mr. Duthie found himself once more upon
the stone steps of Ardguys.
Archie and his grandmother were left together
in the panelled room. Perhaps the boy’s hopes
were raised by the abrupt departure of his accuser
He glanced tentatively at her.
“ You will not take away my box ?” he inquired.
“No.”
“ Mr. Duthie has a face like this,” he said airily,
drawing his small features into a really brilliant
imitation of the minister.
The answer was hardly what he expected.
“ Go up to the cupboard and fetch me the cane,”
said Madam Flemington.
It was a short time later when Archie, rather
sore, but still comforted by his philosophy, sat
among the boughs of a tree farther up the hill.
It was a favourite spot of his, for he could look
down through the light foliage over the roof of
Ardguys and the Kilpie burn to the rough road
ascending beyond them. The figure of the
retreating Mr. Duthie had almost reached the
top and was about to be lost in the whin-patch
across the strath. The little boy’s eyes followed
him between the yellowing leaves of the tree
which autumn was turning into the clear-tinted
ghost of itself. He had not escaped justice, and
the marks of tears were on his face; but they
were not rancorous tears, whose traces live in the
heart long after the outward sign of their fall has
gone. They were tears forced from him by
passing stress, and their sources were shallow.