"Ah, why?" reply I, laughing awkwardly.

"You are not _afraid_ of him, surely?"

"Oh, no--not at all!"

"Why do you speak in that sneering voice? It is not your own voice; I
have known you only twenty-four hours, and yet I can tell that."

"I will not answer any more questions," reply I, recovering both hands
with a sudden snatch: "and if you ask me any more, I will not take you
out walking! there!" So I make off, laughing.




CHAPTER V.


"A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom," say I slowly next
morning, as I stand by the window, trying to see clearly through the
dimmed and tearful pane. "The king would have to do without his ransom
to-day."

It is raining _mightily_: strong, straight, earnest rain, that harshly
lashes the meek earth, that sends angry runlets down the gravel walks,
that muddies the gold goblets of the closed crocuses.

"And you without your walk!" says Barbara, lifting her face from her
stitching. "Poor Miss Nancy!"