But the noon hour came and with it no hungry little boys. Then, indeed, did the relatives of the children grow uneasy. The two telephones were kept busy, and Mr. Garner, with several other men on horseback, scoured the village. Not a soul had seen either child.
At three o'clock Miss Minerva, worn with anxiety and on the verge of a collapse, dropped into a chair on her veranda, her faithful Major by her side. He had come to offer help and sympathy as soon as he heard of her distress, and, finding her in such a softened, dependent, and receptive mood, the Major had remained to try to cheer her up.
Mr. and Mrs. Garner were also on the porch, discussing what further steps they could take.
“It is all the fault of that William of yours,” snapped one little boy's mother to the other little boy's aunt: “Jimmy is the best child in the world when he is by himself, but he is easily led into mischief.”
Miss Minerva's face blazed with indignation.
“William's fault indeed!” she answered back. “There never was a sweeter child than William;” for the lonely woman knew the truth at last. At the thought that her little nephew might be hurt, a long forgotten tenderness stirred her bosom and she realized for the first time how the child had grown into her life.
“They are all right,” shouted Mr. Garner joyously, as he quickly opened and read the yellow missive, “they went on the excursion and Sam Lamb is bringing them home on the accommodation.”
As the Major, short, plump, rubicund, jolly, and Miss Minerva, tall, sallow, angular, solemn, were walking to the station to meet the train that was bringing home the runaways, the elderly lover knew himself to be at last master of the situation.
“The trouble with Billy--” he began, adjusting his steps to Miss Minerva's mincing walk.
“The trouble with Billy,” repeated her suitor firmly, “is this: you have tried to make a girl out of a healthy, high-spirited boy; you haven't given him the toys and playthings a boy should have; you have not even given the child common love and affection.” He was letting himself go, for he knew that she needed the lecture, and, wonderful to tell, she was listening meekly. “You have steeled your heart,” he went on, “against Billy and against me. You have about as much idea how to manage a boy as a--as a--” he hesitated for a suitable comparison: he wanted to say “goat,” but gallantry forbade; “as any other old maid,” he blurted out, realizing as he did so that a woman had rather be called a goat than an old maid any time.