and his hand ready to relieve it; little children with feverish cheeks and tired eyes will love to clasp his cool, strong sand; he will be gentle as a woman, yet thoroughly manly, as he is now, for he has made the most of his golden youth, and every lad who does that will have a golden manhood and a glorious old age.
As for Philip Noble, he was a dear, good, trustworthy lad too; kindly, generous, practical, and industrious; a trifle slow and reserved, perhaps, but full of common sense,—the kind of sense which, after all, is most uncommon.
Bell once said: ‘This is the difference between Philip and Geoffrey,—one does, and the other is. Geoff is the real Simon-pure ideal which we praise Philip for trying to be,’—a very good description for a little maiden whose bright eyes had only looked into life for sixteen summers.
And now we come to Jack Howard, who never kept still long enough for any one to write a description of him. To explain how he differed from Philip or Geoffrey would be like bringing the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer together for purposes of comparison.
If there were a horseback ride, Jack rode the wildest colt, was oftenest thrown and least often hurt; if a fishing-party, Jack it was who caught all the fish, though he made more noise than any one else, and followed no rules laid down in The Complete Angler.
He was very often in trouble; but his misdemeanours were those of pure mischief, and were generally atoned for when it was possible. He excelled in all out-of-door sports. And indeed, if his prudence had at all kept pace with his ability, he might have done remarkable things in almost any direction; but he constantly overshot the mark, and people looked to him for the dazzling brilliancy and uncertainty of a meteor, but never for the steady glow of a fixed star.
Just now, Jack was a good deal sobered, and appeared at his very best. The teaching of Dr. Paul and the companionship of Geoffrey had done much for him, while the illness of his sister Elsie, who was the darling of his heart, acted constantly as a sort of curb upon him; for he loved her with all the ardour and passion which he gave to everything else. You might be fearful of Jack’s high spirits and riotous mirth, of his reckless actions and heedless jokes, but you could scarcely keep from admiring the boy; for he was brave and handsome and winsome enough to charm the very birds off the bush, as Aunt Truth acknowledged, after giving him a lecture for some misdemeanour.
The three girls made their way a short distance up the cañon to a place which they called Prospect Pool, because it was so entirely shut in from observation.
‘Dear old Geoff!’ said Bell, throwing her shawl over a rock and opening her volume of Carlyle. ‘He has gone all through this for me, and written nice little remarks on the margin,—explanations and things, and interrogations where he thinks I won’t know what is meant and had better find out,—bless his heart! What have you brought, Margery? By the way, you must move your seat away from that clump of poison-oak bushes; we can’t afford to have any accidents which will interfere with our fun. We have all sorts of new remedies, but I prefer that the boys should experiment with them.’
‘It’s the softest seat here, too,’ grumbled Margery. ‘We must get the boys to cut these bushes down. Why, you haven’t any book, you lazy Polly. Are you going to sleep, or shall you chatter and prevent our reading?’
‘Neither,’ she answered. ‘Here is a doughnut which I propose to send down the red pathway of fate; and here a pencil and paper with which I am going to begin our round-robin letter to Elsie.’
‘That’s good! She has only had notes from Jack and one letter from us, which, if I remember right, had nothing in it.’
‘Thanks! I wrote it,’ sniffed Bell.
‘Well, I meant it had no news—no account of things, you know.’
‘No, I wouldn’t descend to writing news, and I leave accounts to the butcher.’
‘Stop quarrelling, girls! This is my plan: I will begin in my usual rockety style, sometimes maliciously called the Pollyoliver method; Margery will take up the thread sedately; Bell will plunge in with a burst of enthusiasm and seventeen adjectives, followed by a verse of poor poetry; Geoff will do the sportive or instructive, just as he happens to feel; and Phil will wind up the letter by some practical details which will serve as a key to all the rest. Won’t it be a box of literary bonbons for her to read in bed, poor darling! Let me see! I represent the cayenne lozenges, sharp but impressive; Margery will do for jujube paste, which I adore,—mild, pleasant, yielding, delicious.’
‘Sticky and insipid!’ murmured Madge, plaintively.
‘Not at all, my dear. Bell stands for the peppermints; Jack for chocolates, “the ladies’ delight”; Geoffrey for a wine-drop, altogether good, but sweetest in its heart; Phil—let me see! Phil is like—what is he like?’
‘No more like candy than a cold boiled potato,’ said his sister.
‘He is candid,’ suggested Bell. ‘Let us call him rock-candy, pure, healthful, and far from soft.’
‘Or marshmallow,’ said Margery, ‘good, but tough.’
‘Or caramel,’ laughed Polly; ‘it always sticks to a point.’
‘Thanks, gentle creatures,’ said a voice from the bushes on the other side of the pool, and Phil stalked out from his covert, like a wounded deer.
‘How long have you been in there, villain?’ cried Bell.
‘Ever since lunch; but I only waked from a sound sleep some twenty minutes ago. I’ve heard a most instructive conversation—never been more amused in my life; don’t know whether I prefer being a cold boiled potato or a ladies’-delight!’
‘You haven’t any choice,’ snapped Polly, a trifle embarrassed at having been overheard.
‘I’m glad it was my own sister who called me a c. b. p. (the most loathsome thing in existence, by the way), because sisters never appreciate their brothers.’
‘I didn’t call you a c. b. p.,’ remonstrated Margery. ‘I said you were no more like candy than a c. b. p. There is a difference.’
‘Is there? My poor brain fails to grasp it. But never mind; I’ll forgive you.’
‘Listeners never hear good of themselves,’ sighed Polly.
‘Are you writing a copy-book, Miss Oliver? I didn’t want to listen; it was very painful to my feelings, but I was too sleepy to move.’
‘And now our afternoon is gone, and we have not read a word,’ sighed little Margery. ‘I never met two such chatterboxes as you and Polly.’
‘And to hear us talk is a liberal education,’ retorted Polly.
‘Exactly,’ said Philip, dryly, ‘Come, I’ll take the books and shawls. It’s nearly five o’clock, and we shall hear Hop Yet blowing his lusty dinner-horn presently.’
‘Why didn’t you go off shooting with the others?’ asked Margery.
‘Stayed at home so they’d get a chance to shoot.’
‘Why, do you mean you always scare the game away?’ inquired Polly, artlessly.
‘No; I mean that I always do all the shooting, and the others get discouraged.’
