The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's
entreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The
little ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached
patience.
"Cocky has been tamed," said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, "perhaps John
Broom will get steadier by-and-by."
"It seems a pity we can't chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty," laughed the
parson; "he would be safe then, at any rate."
Miss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the
parson should have made this particular joke on this particular
night--the night when John Broom did not come home.
He had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he
had kept out of the way.
The wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea,
bringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with
salt. It made John Broom's heart beat faster, and filled his head with
dreams of ships and smugglers, and rocking masts higher than the
willow-tree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves.
Then something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff's
speckled hat. John Broom hesitated--the thick stick became visible.
Then a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and
ran, and ran coastwards, into the sea mist.
THE SEA.
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