So Julia found when she attempted to beat a retreat. The mud was in a half-dry slimy condition, not favourable to upward progress, and the child's prediction was very nearly fulfilled. Julia grasped at the willows, and had a struggle to reach firmer ground.
"What made you go down there, Aunt Julia? Marjory told me I mustn't never, if I was alone."
"I suppose I went because I was not under orders. What made you look so sorry to see me, Mittie?"
Children do not often mince matters, and the reply came unhesitatingly, "I wanted Marjory. She's such a dear."
"You ought to call her Miss Fitzalan."
"Marjory says I needn't."
"Well, it is getting late. You had better come home with me now."
"O no, I can't. I want to see my Marjory."
"But it is too damp for you here. I am sure your mother won't like it."
Julia said her say, and was about to go on, not in the least expecting compliance from the spoilt child. To her surprise a deep sigh sounded, and Mittie's hand stole into hers.