arrows in his belt, and the feather in his cap to tell me who he was for the time being.
“How now, Robin?” I inquired.
“I’m a bitter, disappointed man, Uncle Dick!” he answered, putting up a hand to feel if his feather was in place.
“Are you?”
“Yes the book says that Robin Hood was ‘bitter an’ disappointed’ an’ so am I.”
“Why, how’s that?”
The Imp folded his arms and regarded me with a terrific frown. “It’s all the fault of my Auntie Lisbeth’!” he said in a tragic voice.
“Sit down, my Imp, and tell me all about it.”
“Well,” he began laying aside his ‘trusty sword,’ and seating himself at my elbow, “she got awfull’ angry with me yesterday, awfull’ angry, indeed, an’ she wouldn’t play with me or anything; an’ when I tried to be friends with her an’ asked her to pretend she was a hippopotamus, ‘cause I was a mighty hunter, you know, she just said, ‘Reginald, go away an’ don’t bother me!’
“You surprise me, Imp!”
“But that’s not the worst of it,” he continued, shaking his head gloomily; “she didn’t come to ‘tuck me up’ an’ kiss me good-night like she always does. I lay awake hours an’ hours waiting for her, you know; but she never came, an’ so I’ve left her!”
“Left her!” I repeated.
“For ever an’ ever!” he said, nodding a stern brow. “I ‘specks she’ll be awfull’ sorry some day!”
“But where shall you go to?”
“I’m thinking of Persia!” he said darkly.
“Oh!”
“It’s nice an’ far, you know, an’ I might meet Aladdin with the wonderful lamp.”
“Alas, Imp, I fear not,” I answered, shaking my head; “and besides, it will take a long, long time to get there, and where shall you sleep at night?”
The Imp frowned harder than ever, staring straight before him as one who wrestles with some mighty problem, then his brow cleared and he spoke in this wise:
“Henceforth, Uncle Dick, my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an - an - wait a minute!” he broke off, and lugging something from his pocket, disclosed a tattered, papercovered volume (the Imp’s books are always tattered), and hastily turning the pages, paused at a certain paragraph and read as follows:
“‘Henceforth my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an’ all tyrants shall learn to tremble at my name!’ Doesn’t that sound fine, Uncle Dick? I tried to get Ben, you know, the gardener’s boy - to come an’ live in the ‘greenwood’ with me a bit an’ help to make ‘tyrants’ tremble, but he said he was ‘fraid his mother might find him some day, an’ he wouldn’t, so I’m going to make them tremble all by myself, unless you will come an’ be Little John, like you were once before - oh, do!”
Before I could answer, hearing footsteps, I looked round, and my heart leaped, for there was Lisbeth coming down the path.
Her head was drooping and she walked with a listless air. Now, as I watched I forgot everything but that she looked sad, and troubled, and more beautiful than ever, and that I loved her. Instinctively I rose, lifting my cap. She started, and for the fraction of a second her eyes looked into mine, then she passed serenely on her way. I might have been a stick or stone for all the further notice she bestowed.
Side by side, the Imp and I watched her go, until the last gleam of her white skirt had vanished amid the green. Then he folded his arms and turned to me.
“So be it!” he said, with an air of stern finality; “an’ now, what is a ‘blasted oak,’ please?”
“A blasted oak!” I repeated.
“If you please, Uncle Dick.”
“‘Well, it’s an oak-tree that has been struck by lightning.”
“Like the one with the ‘stickie-out’ branches, where I once hid Auntie Lis - Her stockings?”
I nodded, and sitting down, began to pack up my fishing rod and things.
“I’m glad of that,” pursued the Imp thoughtfully. “Robin Hood was always saying to somebody, ‘Hie thee to the blasted oak at midnight!’ an’ it’s nice to have one handy, you know.”
I thought that under certain circumstances, and with a piece of rope, it would be very much so, “blasted” or otherwise, but I only said, “Yes” and sighed.
“‘Whence that doleful visage,’ Uncle Dick - I mean Little John? Is Auntie angry with you, too?”
“Yes,” I answered, and sighed again.
“Oh!” said the Imp, staring, “an’ do you feel like - like - wait a minute - and once more he drew out and consulted the tattered volume - “‘do you feel like hanging yourself in your sword-belt to the arm of yonder tree?’” he asked eagerly, with his finger upon a certain paragraph.
“Very like it, my Imp.”
“Or - or ‘hurling yourself from the topmost pinnacle of yon lofty crag?’”
“Yes, Imp; the ‘loftier’ the better!”
