“Come, don’t make a tomfoolery of it; that’s enough. I shall have all the fellows at me for your coming up in that way, you know. Why couldn’t you shake hands like anyone else?”
“O Charlie, I couldn’t help it! Please let us go home!”
“Do you mean that you aren’t come from there?”
“No,” said Kate, half ashamed, but far more exultant, and hanging down her head; “I came from London—I came by myself. My aunt wanted me to tell a story, and—and I have run away. O Charlie! take me home!” and with a fresh access of alarm, she again threw her arms round him, as if to gain his protection from some enemy.
“Oh, I say!” again he cried, looking up the empty street and down again, partly for the enemy, partly to avoid eyes; but he only beheld three dirty children and an old woman, so he did not throw her off roughly. “Ran away!” and he gave a great whistle.
“Yes, yes. My aunt shut me up because I would not tell a story,” said Kate, really believing it herself. “Oh, let us get home, Charlie, do.”
“Very well, if you won’t throttle a man; and let me get Tony in here,” he added, going on a little way towards a small inn stable-yard.
“Oh, don’t go,” cried Kate, who, once more protected, could not bear to be left alone a moment; but Charlie plunged into the yard, and came back not only with the pony, but with a plaid, and presently managed to mount Kate upon the saddle, throwing the plaid round her so as to hide the short garments and long scarlet stockings, that were not adapted for riding, all with a boy’s rough and tender care for the propriety of his sister’s appearance.
“There, that will do,” said he, holding the bridle. “So you found it poor fun being My Lady, and all that.”
“Oh! it was awful, Charlie! You little know, in your peaceful retirement, what are the miseries of the great.”