Winifred thanked the teacher and backed out of the room as if in the presence of royalty itself. This action in itself was offensive to the teacher but was one she could hardly criticise; nor did she guess that, once out of sight, the “wheedler” should first stamp her foot and exclaim:
“I’m sick to death of hearing about my ‘influence’ and being an ‘individual.’ Makes me feel like a spider, that time the German count came to visit Father and called his attention to ‘that individual crawling down the wall.’ He meant ‘one, a solitary thing.’ But I’m no ‘solitary’ just because Father has a little money. I often wish he hadn’t a pound, especially when some of the ‘Peers’ try to make me believe he is at least a ‘Sir’.”
Then hurrying to Dorothy she danced about in delight at her success.
“Yes, she says you may come, and she’s sure to send us in a fine supper. Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon never does a thing by halves, not even a lecture on ‘individual influence.’ Queen Baltimore, aren’t you glad you’re poor?”
“Neither glad nor sorry, Winifred, because I’m neither rich nor poor. Anyway neither of us can help being just as we are, I reckon.”
“Come on, though, and hurry up. ‘If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,’” quoted Winifred, whose class reading just then was “Macbeth”; and seizing the smaller girl whirled merrily down the hall.
Five minutes later, with hats and jackets on, they joined the other pupils out of doors. To Dorothy it seemed the beautiful grounds were alive with all sorts and conditions of girls, pacing rapidly up and down, “sprinting” to warm themselves against the chill of the coming evening, playing tennis for the brief half-hour, or racing one another from point to point. There were girls so many and so various, from Seventh Form young ladies to the wee little Minims, that Dolly wondered if she would ever know them all or feel herself a member of the great company.
But Winifred gave her little time to gaze about her.
“Oh! don’t bother with them now. Our way is that lower gate, and it’s a good bit of a distance, I hope you’re a good walker.”
“Pretty good, I reckon,” answered Dolly falling into step with the taller girl and hurrying forward at even a swifter pace.
“But, begging your pardon, that’s no way. We Canadians learn pedestrianism – whew! what a long word! – just as we learn our letters. Begin very slowly at first. Then when your muscles are limbered, walk faster – and faster – and faster! Till it seems as if your legs swing up and down of their own accord, just like machines. It’s wonderful then how little you tire and how far you can go. Slack up a bit and I’ll show you.”
Absorbed in this new lesson Dorothy scarcely noticed when they left Oak Knowe limits and struck out along a country lane, with hedgerows at either side; nor when having climbed a stile they set out across a plowed field, till her feet grew heavy with the soil they gathered.
“Oh! dear! What mud! Why do you walk in it, Winifred?”
“It’s the shortest road. Here’s a stone. Stop a bit and scrape it off – as I do. See?” answered the other, calmly illustrating her advice.
“But I don’t like it. My shoes will be ruined!” wailed Dolly who was always finical about “dirt.”
“Humph! Haven’t you another pair? But they ought to be – such flimsy-wimpsy affairs! Look at mine. A bit of mud more or less can’t hurt them and it’s the boot-boy’s business to clean them.”
The English girl held forth a good sized foot clad in a still larger shoe of calfskin, which though soiled with the clay had not absorbed much of its moisture: while the finer affairs of Dorothy’s were already wet through, making her uncomfortable.
“I couldn’t walk in such heavy boots. And it’s raining again. It rained last night. Does it rain every day in Canada? We ought to go back. Do let’s, and try this some other time. I reckon this will finish my new suit, entirely.”
Winifred put her arms akimbo and stared at her new friend. Then burst into a hearty laugh over Dorothy’s disgusted face.
“Ha, ha, ha! And ‘I reckon,’ little southerner, that you’ll be a more sensible girl after you’ve lived up here a while. The idea of turning back because it rains! absurd! Why, it’s fine, just fine! The Lady Principal will overhaul your fair-weather-clothes and see that you get some fit to stand anything. This homespun suit of mine couldn’t get wet through if it tried! But I shan’t stand here, in the middle of a plowed field, and let it try. Come on. Its the States against the Province! Who’ll win?”
“I will! For old Maryland and the President!” cried Dorothy, and valiantly strode forward again.
“For our Province and the King!” shouted the Canadian; and after that neither spoke, till the long walk ended before the cottage door of old John Gilpin and his dame. There Winifred gave a smart tap to the panel and holding her hand toward Dorothy, cried:
“Quits, Queen Baltimore! We’ll call it even and I’ll never doubt your pluck again. But you certainly must get some decent clothes – if I have to buy them myself!”
Then the door opened and there stood old John, peering from the lamp-lighted room into the twilight without. After a second he recognized Dorothy and drew her in, exclaiming joyfully:
“Why, Dame, ’tis our little lass herself! Her of the night last spent and the helping hand! Step ben, step ben, and t’other miss with ye. You’re surely welcome as the flowers in spring.”
Mrs. Gilpin came ponderously forward, a smile on her big but comely face, and silently greeted both visitors, while her more nimble husband promptly “step-an’-fetched” the best chairs in the room and placed them before the fire.
“Dry yourselves, lassies, whilst I tell the Robin you’ve come to see him. He’ll be that proud, poor laddie, to have Oak Knowe young ladies pay him that honor! and he’s mending fine, mending fine, doctor says. The mother – ”
He disappeared within that inner chamber still talking and as happy now as he had seemed sorrowful when Dorothy parted from him on the night before. Then he had anticipated nothing less than death for the boy he loved, despite the doctor’s assurance to the contrary. He came back leading a woman by the hand, as protectingly as if she had been a child, and introduced her as:
“The bit mother hersel’! Look at her well. Isn’t she the very sight and image of Robin, the lad? And mind how she’s pickin’ up already. Just one day of good victuals and Dame’s cossetting and the pink’s streamin’ back to her cheeks. Please the good Lord they’ll never get that thin again whilst I have my ox-team to haul with and the Dame’s good land to till. I’ll just step-an’-fetch the rocker out – ”
At that point in his remarks the Dame laid a hand on his shoulder, saying:
“That’ll do, John Gilpin. Just brew a cup of tea. I’ll tell the lad.”
Winifred was amused at this wifely reprimand, but no offense seemed meant nor taken. The farmer stopped talking and deftly made the tea from the boiling kettle, added a couple of plates to the waiting supper table, and drew from the oven a mighty dish of baked beans that might have been cooked in Yankee-land, and flanked this by a Yorkshire pudding.
“Oh! how nice that smells!” cried Dorothy, springing up to add the knives and forks from the dresser; while Winifred clapped her hands in a pretended ecstasy and sniffed the savory odors, admitting: “I’m as hungry as hungry! And this beats any supper I asked for at Oak Knowe. I hope they’ll want us to stay!”
Her