“Why, Georgie, what are you thinking about?” she cried.
“Time for us to be moving,” George said, standing up. “That boy ought to come back. How do you like my valley, Dulcie?”
“Too much shut in,” said Dulcibel promptly. “But it is pretty—and the river is nice. I wish the poor in our towns could have such a water supply. There comes Leo. Oh, we are not going back yet, Georgie! No use to think of being in time for lunch, so we’ll just eat my sandwiches here. I wish we had a bottle or two of soda-water.”
Dreamy enjoyment was over, and an hour of merriment ensued, Dulcie being in high spirits, and allowing no time for enjoyment of reposeful nature. Then at length she consented to a move, and a sigh broke from her as to “that horrid bridge.”
“I see!” George began.
“Yes; I’ve been putting it off as long as possible; but I suppose we must!” and Dulcie sighed again. “I shall never come to your valley a second time, Georgie. Horrid place! I can’t endure that bridge. Is there really no other way out?”
“Not within your powers of walking, Dulcie. And if there were—” George paused, with a curious expression in his brown eyes—“I should like my wife to be not quite so readily beaten.”
“Oh, I’m not the least proud, Georgie dear! I’d give in willingly.”
But George took the empty basket, and gave her his arm; and she had to follow his lead.
The bridge reached, they came all at once to a very unexpected sight. A little girl was there, entirely alone, possibly three or four years old, seated composedly on the grass close beside the bridge, her plump hands folded. She did not give the strangers a look of welcome. A pair of black velvety eyes gazed hard as they approached, and the black brows above drew into a forbidding frown, odd on that infantine face, while the full red lips pouted in correspondence.