CHAPTER VIII
THE BEST MAN LOSES
It was quite dark when I came up to the White House. Old Mr. Oakley was snoozing in his arm- chair; Sir Nicolas was with Miss Oakley in the garden. I didn't mean to tell him any thing until he went up to bed; but he heard that I was back, and he sent for me to come out to the summer-house to him. When I got there, he was standing in the doorway of the arbor, with Miss Janet hanging on to his arm, as pretty a little thing as a man might find between London and Vienna.
"Well, Hildebrand," said she, "and I hope that you've brought me something nice from the post-office?"
"And I do wish I had, to be sure, miss," said I.
"Are they talking about Saturday in the village?" she went on, giving Sir Nicolas a good squeeze with her arm, as I could see.
"Doing nothing but talk of it, miss," I said. "There's to be fine doings down there when you're gone away. Mr. Oakley's a kind-hearted gentleman, I must say."
She didn't answer me now, but turned to my master, and cried:
