“Has the little Scout been here?” asked Jamie.
“Not that I know of,” said Margaret Cameron. “Of course, I don’t pretend to keep tally on the comings and goings of that youngster, and I wouldn’t take oath that a window wouldn’t form a more suitable mode of entrance than a door. You know, there’s a gate between us, and you know that you never saw the little Scout do anything but jump the fence.”
Jamie grinned.
“I know. That’s part of a code of exercise. By this time I know the little Scout fairly well. In the first place, the youngster is not addicted to gathering flowers. In the second place, these flowers have been very carefully clipped with scissors or a knife, and in the third place, they are arranged with a grace and a beauty to which the little fellow has not as yet attained. Some of the stems are long and some of the stems are short, and some of the heads are upstanding and some, having a few leaves, spill over the edge of the bowl and creep out on the stand cover, and altogether they are sufficiently artistic to please the senses of the most discriminating artist of Japan. If the little Scout had gathered them, they would have been wadded into a tight bunch and chucked into the bow! in the most effective way to get them there. Don’t you believe it?”
“I think very likely,” answered Margaret Cameron.
Jamie smiled his most ingratiating smile.
“Margaret,” he said, “you would tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you?”
