It was clear that the time had come for me to get down to the gate at the end of the garden as quickly as possible, and I began to move away in that direction. The little girl at once stopped capering and planted herself squarely in front of me. “Who are you?” she said, examining me from my hat to my boots with the keenest interest.
I considered this ungarnished manner of asking questions impertinent, and, trying to look lofty, made an attempt to pass at the side.
The little girl, with a quick, cork-like movement, was there before me.
“Who are you?” she repeated, her expression friendly but firm. “Oh, I—I’m a pilgrim,” I said in desperation.
“A pilgrim!” echoed the little girl. She seemed struck, and while she was struck I slipped past her and began to walk quickly towards the door in the wall. “A pilgrim!” said the little girl, again, keeping close beside me, and looking me up and down attentively. “I don’t like pilgrims. Aren’t they people who are always walking about, and have things the matter with their feet? Have you got anything the matter with your feet?”
“Certainly not,” I replied indignantly, walking still faster.
“And they never wash, Miss Robinson says. You don’t either, do you?”
“Not wash? Oh, I’m afraid you are a very badly brought-up little girl—oh, leave me alone—I must run—”
“So must I,” said the little girl, cheerfully, “for Miss Robinson must be close behind us. She nearly had me just before I found you.” And she started running by my side.
The thought of Miss Robinson close behind us gave wings to my feet, and, casting my dignity, of which, indeed, there was but little left, to the winds, I fairly flew down the path. The little girl was not to be outrun, and though she panted and turned weird colours, kept by my side and even talked. Oh, I was tired, tired in body and mind, tired by the different shocks I had received, tired by the journey, tired by the want of food; and here I was being forced to run because this very naughty little girl chose to hide instead of going in to her lessons.