across the pastures when the two children reached the lodge gates. A floral arch was above the gate, and wreaths of flowers and flags made the avenue gay. Charling had grown very tired, and Harry had carried her on his back for the last mile or two—resting often, because Charling was a strong, healthy child, and, as he phrased it, "no slouch of a weight."
Now they paused at the gate of the lodge.
"This is my house," said Charling. "They've put all these things up for her I suppose. If you'll write down your address I'll give you mine, and we can write and tell each other what they are like afterwards. I've got a bit of chalk somewhere."
She fumbled in the dusty confusion of her little pocket while Harry found the envelope of his sister's letter and tore it in two. Then, one on each side of the lodge gate-post, the children wrote, slowly and carefully, for some moments. Presently they exchanged papers, and each read the words written by the other. Then suddenly both turned very red.
"But this is my address," said she. "The Grange, Falconbridge."
