“Well,—I know not what then. You drive one on, Aunt Joyce. Methinks, then, I would come home and see you all, and recount mine aventures.”
“Oh, mightily obliged to your Highness!” quoth Aunt Joyce. “I had thought, when your Majesty were thus up at top of the tree, you should forget utterly so mean a place as Selwick Hall, and the contemptible things that inhabit there. And then?”
“Come, I will make an end,” saith Milly, laughing. “I reckon I should be a bit wearied by then, and fain to bide at home and take mine ease.”
“And pray, what hindereth that your Grace should do that now?” saith Aunt Joyce, looking up with a comical face.
“Well, but I am not aweary, and have no aventures to tell,” Milly makes answer.
“Go into the garden and jump five hundred times, Milly, and I will warrant thee to be aweary and thankful for rest. And as to aventures,—eh, my maid, my maid!” And Aunt Joyce and Mother smiled one upon the other.
“Now, Mother and Aunt, may I say what I think?” cries Milly.
“Prithee, so do, my maid.”
“Then, why do you folks that be no longer young, ever damp and chill young folks that would fain see the world and have some jollity?”
“By reason, Milly, that we have been through the world, and we know it to be a damp place and a cold.”