“A friend of mine,” said Dennis; “he’s Mr Solace’s wheelwright.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” said Philippa; “Maisie told me about him. What odd friends you have!”
She looked curiously at Dennis as he marched along flourishing his stick. It must be rather nice, she began to think, to do things for people, and for them to be so grateful, and carve sticks on purpose for you.
Still, it was “odd,” and there was a good deal in it that she did not understand.
Arrived at the farm, however, her thoughts were soon distracted; first by the appearance of the turkey-cock, and the agreeable discovery that she was not afraid of him.
“What a baby you are, Maisie!” she exclaimed.
“She isn’t always,” said Dennis; “there are lots of things worse than the turkey-cock that she doesn’t mind a bit. Things you’d be afraid of, perhaps.—There is Mrs Solace at the door.”
Mrs Solace beamed at the children in her usual kindly way; and, as was her custom, would not think of their leaving the house without eating something after their walk. At home Philippa would have despised bread and honey and new milk, but here somehow it tasted very good, and she was too hungry to stop to call it odd.
“The little lady wants some of your roses, Miss Maisie,” said Mrs Solace, looking at the children as they sat side by side; “she’s as white as a sloe-blossom.”
“My complexion’s naturally delicate, thank you,” said Philippa, rather offended; “I never get sunburnt like Maisie.”