Joyce went with him to the carriage-house. Together they swung open the
great door. Then an exclamation of dismay fell from Joyce's lips. All
over the floor were scattered scraps of leather and cloth and hair, the
kind used in upholstering. The goats had whiled away the hours of their
imprisonment by chewing up the cushions of the pony cart.
Jules turned pale with fright. Knowing so little of the world, he judged
all grown people by his knowledge of Henri and Brossard. "Oh, what will
they do to us?" he gasped.
"Nothing at all," answered Joyce, bravely, although her heart beat twice
as fast as usual as monsieur's accusing face rose up before her.
"It was all my fault," said Jules, ready to cry. "What must I do?" Joyce
saw his distress, and with quick womanly tact recognized her duty as
hostess. It would never do to let this, his first Thanksgiving Day, be
clouded by a single unhappy remembrance. She would pretend that it was a
part of their last game; so she waved her hand, and said, in a
theatrical voice, "You forget, Prince Ethelried, that in the castle of
Irmingarde she rules supreme. If it is the pleasure of your royal steeds
to feed upon cushions they shall not be denied, even though they choose
my own coach pillows, of gold-cloth and velour."
"But what if Gabriel should tell Brossard?" questioned Jules, his teeth
almost chattering at the mere thought.
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