“Oh, Jonathan! What about catching that train?”
“They’ll have watches—watches that go.”
“But what about our meeting them? The train arrives at [10:15], they said. What does [10:15] look like in the sky, I wonder!”
“Or rather, what does 8.45 look like? It takes an hour and a half to get there, counting crossing the river.”
“Yes—dear me! Well, Jonathan, we’ll just have to get up early and go, and then wait.”
“Or else take our watch to the farmhouse and set it.”
“Jonathan, I will not! I’d rather start at daylight.”
Which was very nearly what we did. The morning opened with a sun obscured, and I felt sure it was stealing a march on us and [pg 157] would suddenly burst out upon us from a noonday sky. We breakfasted hastily, ferried across to shore, and set a swinging pace down the road. As we walked, the sun burned through the mist, and our shadows came out, dim, long things, striding with the exaggerated gait that shadows have, over the grassy banks to our right.
“I think,” said Jonathan, “it may be as late as seven o’clock, but perhaps it’s only six.”
When we reached the station, the official clock registered 8.30. We strolled over to the store-and-post-office and got more letters—one from Molly and Jack saying thank you they’d come. “They don’t entirely understand our mail system up here,” said Jonathan. We got some ginger-cookies and some milk and had a second breakfast, and finally wandered back to the station to wait for the train. It came, bearing the expected two, and much friendliness. “Get our letter? There, Jack! He said you wouldn’t, but I said you would. I made him send it … four miles to walk? What fun!”