standing by the gate. Then the brown spaniel became aware of True, and barked, and the old man said, "Down,Trusty!" in his sleep, and then woke up.
His clear old eyes set in many wrinkles turned full on Dickie by the gate.
"May I have a drink of water?" Dickie asked.
"Come in," said the old man.
And Dickie lifted the latch of smooth, brown, sun-warmed iron, and went up the brick path, as the old man slowly turned himself about in the chair.
"Yonder's the well," he said; "draw up a bucket, if thy leg'll let thee, poor little chap!"
"I draws water with my arms, not my legs," said Dickie cheerfully.
"There's a blue mug in the wash-house window-ledge," said the old man. "Fetch me a drop when you've had your drink, my lad."
Of course, Dickie's manners were too good for him to drink first. He drew up the dripping oaken bucket from the cool darkness of the well, fetched the mug, and offered it brimming to the old man. Then he drank, and looked at the garden ablaze with flowers—blush-roses and damask roses, and sweet-williams and candytuft, white lilies and yellow lilies, pansies, larkspur, poppies, bergamot, and sage.
It was just like a play at the Greenwich Theatre, Dickie thought. He had seen a scene just like that, where the old man sat in the sun and the Prodigal returned.
Dickie would not have been surprised to see
