“A very long way,” said I, cheerily looking up.
“We don’t care a dump how long it is, provided we have not to walk it,” chimed Myself, airily wagging its head.
“I am very tired,” said Kitty despondently, and tears rushed into her eyes.
“I suppose you are,” remarked I indifferently.
“That is no matter to us,” said Myself, grinning his ghostly smile.
“I cannot offer you this seat,” said I, “for Myself must sit there. I am afraid of tiring Myself. It is a duty I owe to Myself, never to tire Myself—precious one—never to let Myself be hungry or thirsty—dearest creature—or any harm come to Myself—excellent fellow.” Saying this I and Myself sat down side by side on the mossy roots of a tree, and looked up at Kitty with a grin that made the spectral face of Myself more than ever like that of I.
“Selfish thing!” muttered Kitty indignantly. “It must be Goblin Selfishness.”
“Yes, Goblin Selfishness,” whispered the guardian child, and his voice was anxious. “Take care!”
“Oh!” said Kitty, once more setting off at a run, “there’s no danger for me. It will be enough to think of that creepy, misty, ugly Myself, never to think of myself again, lest—”
But she stopped.