"I only heard from this Mr. Wynn once," I said. "Then he did not tell me what he was doing, or what had happened to him all these years. So I can't tell you. And I could not write to him, or ask him about anything, because I'd thrown away his letter."
"Thrown it away?" Captain Holiday exclaimed, quite loudly.
"I threw it away by mistake—with the address. So that was that—and I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that's absolutely all I can tell you about him, Captain Holiday!"
I scattered my last handful, let the last replete and peeping chick out of the last coop. Captain Holiday—perhaps feeling a trifle rebuked—said nothing further. Swinging my empty pail I ran down the hillside. He and his dog followed me through the farm gate and went on.
At the door of the kitchen I handed in my pail. The rosy farm-servant said to me:
"Miss, you'll have to run if you want to catch up your friends. They've been gone some time."
I glanced up at the clock.
"Is it so late, Maggie-Mary!" I exclaimed.
I sped through the yard and on to the up-and-down high road, thinking as I went the question that almost every Land Girl asks herself at some time:
"How did I ever manage to walk at any pace at all in the days when I wore hampering skirts to flap about me wherever I turned?"