They fitted perfectly; “miraculously” was Rosamund’s word for the way they fitted.

“His legs might a-been poured into them almost, a-dear,” was nurse’s admirably descriptive comment on the general effect produced.

Robin looked at his legs with deep solemnity.  When the great project for this day of days had been broken to him he had fallen upon awe.  His prattling ardors had subsided, stilled by a greater joy than any that had called them forth in his complex past of a child.  Now he gazed at his legs, which were stretched out at right angles to his body on a nursery chair, as if they were not his.  Then he looked up at his mother, his father, nurse; then once more down at his legs.  His eyes were inquiring.  They seemed to say, “Can it be?”

“Bless him!  He can’t hardly believe in it!” muttered nurse.  “And no wonder.”

A small sigh came from Robin.  To his father and mother it came like the whisper of happiness, that good fairy which men cannot quite get rid of, try as they may.  Two small hands went down to the little gaiters and felt them carefully.  Then Robin looked up again, this time at his father, and smiled.  Instinctively he connected his father with these wonderful appurtenances, although his mother had bought them and put them on him.  With that smile he gave the day to his father, and Dion took it with just a glance at Rosamund—­a glance which deprecated and which accepted.

When the dogcart was announced by Annie, with beaming eyes, Dion got his gun, Robin received his whip,—­a miniature hunting-crop with a horn handle,—­his cap was pulled down firmly on his head by Rosamund, and they set forth to the Green Court.  Here they found Harrington’s most fiery horse harnessed to quite a sporting dogcart and doing his very best to champ his bit.  From the ground Robin looked up at him with solemn eyes.  The occasion was almost too great.  His father with a gun, his own legs in gaiters, the whip which he felt in his hand, the packet of sandwiches thrust tenderly by nurse into the pocket of his little covert coat, and now this glorious animal and this high and unusual carriage gleaming with light-colored wood between its immense wheels!  There was almost too much of meaning, too much of suggestion in it all.  No words came to him.  He could only feel and gaze.

A stableman with hard lips stood sentinel in front of the fiery horse, and put up a red forefinger on the right side of his temple to give them greeting.

“I’ll get in first,” said Dion to Rosamund, “and then you can hand me up Robin.”

He put in his gun and took the reins, while Robin instinctively extended his arms so that his mother could take hold of him under them.

“Up we go!” cried Dion.

And he mounted lightly to the high seat.

“Now, Robin!”

Rosamund took hold of Robin, whose short arms were still solemnly outstretched.  She was about to lift him into the cart, but, overcome by an irresistible impulse, she paused, put one arm under the little legs in the gaiters, drew him to her and pressed her lips on the freckled bridge of his tiny nose.