“Verra well. Lamb, perhaps, and strawberry tartlets?”
“Strawberry tartlets for mine,” cried Babe, throwing her tam-o’-shanter in the air. “We’ll be back in time for strawberry tartlets, no matter how good a time we’re having.”
So they started briskly off to find the castle,—a merry party in tam-o’-shanters and sweaters,—for the wind fairly whistled across the moors, and it seemed more like November than July, Betty said.
“That’s because Scotland is so far north,” said Babe wisely. “The long twilights come from that too. It’s almost like the land of the midnight sun.”
“Well, it’s certainly awfully cold,” said Babbie. “Let’s race.”
So they raced down the hard white road till they had reached the graveyard that their landlady had named to them as a landmark.
“This must be the road she told us to take across the fields,” said Babe, pointing to a grassy track that turned off the highroad toward the sea.
“I should call that a path, not a road,” Madeline objected.
“I’ll go ahead and see if there’s any other turning,” suggested Betty.
There didn’t seem to be any, so they took the grassy path—or tried to. A little way down it were some bars, and when they went through them into the pasture an old black cow rushed out from a clump of bushes and ran at them fiercely with her head down.