“And now she walks in the beech-wood?” asked Babbie eagerly.
Betty looked questioningly at Mr. Dwight. “She ought to,” he said laughingly, “since the fair lady of the castle wishes it. I’ll inquire more particularly of the farm people and let you know next time you pay a visit to your domain.”
“I suppose we ought to be going back now,” said Babbie regretfully, leaving her comfortable perch on the castle-wall.
“I should think so. We’ve forgotten the strawberry tartlets,” cried Babe in tragic tones. “It’s half-past twelve now, and our dinner is at one.”
“You can’t possibly make it,” said John. “You’d better stay and have a bite with us at the farm. It isn’t elegant, but everything tastes good, and you must be famished.”
“We are,” sighed Madeline.
“But we’ve got to go back for our own dinner,” declared Babe sternly. “Miss MacNish suggested the tartlets on purpose to please us, you know, and it wouldn’t be nice of us not to go back. It’s only three miles by road, Mr. Morton says, so we ought to be there by a quarter past one.”
“You won’t even stop for a drink of milk?” urged John.
Babbie shook her head. “It would take too long. Come and see us, John, and you too, Mr. Dwight. We’re at Daisybank Villa. I don’t know the street, but you can ask.”
“Oh, we’ll find it all right,” John assured her. “I say, can’t we take some trips together, or some tramps?”