"Can't I go to Bolton with Comfort Pease, Imogen?" asked Matilda.

"I thought you were going with Uncle Jared--didn't mother say you
might? Now don't talk to me, Matilda."

"Uncle Jared's got to go to Ware to buy the horse, and he can't take
us."

"Oh, I forgot. Well, how can you go, then? You and Comfort had better
sit down and play checkers, and be contented."

"We _could_ walk," ventured Matilda.

"Walk to Bolton? You couldn't."

"It's only three miles, and we'd drag each other on my sled."

Imogen frowned over a wrong pucker in the crimson tibet, and did not
appreciate the absurdity of the last. "I do wish you wouldn't bother
me, Matilda," said she. "If I don't get this dress done I can't go to
the party to-night. I don't know what mother would say to your going
to Bolton any such way."

"It wouldn't hurt us a mite. Do let us go, Imogen."

"Well, I'll tell you what you can do," said Imogen. "You can walk
over there--I guess it won't hurt you to walk one way--and then you
can ride home in the stage-coach; it comes over about half-past four.
I'll give you some money."