The Tracker
The child's parents were going to Europe for three months, that
winter. The child himself was getting over a nervous ailment. The
doctors had advised he be kept out of school for a term; and be
sent to the country.
His mother was afraid the constant travel from place to place, in
Europe, might be too much for him. So she asked leave of the
Mistress and the Master,--one of whom was her distant
relative,--for the convalescent to stay at the Place during his
parents' absence.
That was how it all started.
The youngster was eleven years old; lank and gangling, and blest
with a fretful voice and with far less discipline and manners
than a three-month collie pup. His name was Cyril. Briefly, he
was a pest,--an unspeakable pest.
For the first day or two at the Place, the newness of his
surroundings kept Cyril more or less in bounds. Then, as
homesickness and novelty alike wore off, his adventurous soul
expanded.
He was very much at home; far more so than were his hosts, and
infinitely more pleased than they with the situation in general.
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