"Oh, Uncle Horace, we were having such fun with Cousin
Madelon."
"Uncle Horace, will you give me a ride? You give better rides
than Cousin Madelon," cries Jack, slipping down on to the
ground.
"Uncle Horace, Cousin Madelon has been telling us about South
America, and we have been hunting buffaloes."
"I am sorry," says Madelon; "I quite forgot how busy you are,
Monsieur Horace, and that you could hear all our noise. We
will be quieter for the future, and not hunt buffaloes just
over your head."
He looked at her without answering; there was a flush on her
pale cheeks under the shadow of the heavy waves of hair, a
smile in her eyes as she looked at him with one of her old,
shy, childish glances, as if not quite sure how he would take
her apology. He could not help smiling in answer, then laughed
outright, and turned away abruptly.
"Come here, then Jack, and I will give you a ride," he said,
lifting the boy on to his shoulder. "This is the way we hunt
buffaloes."
Half-an-hour later, Maria, just come in from the village,
looked into the nursery, attracted by the shouts and laughter.
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