It had evidently been all talked over and arranged beforehand, and Frances had no objection to raise. In fact, the prospect delighted her.
“I should like to take my sketching-block,” she said. “And I shall be quite happy.”
So, armed with her beloved box of paints and brushes, she presently descended to find Arthur waiting somewhat moodily at the door with a pie-bald cob harnessed to a light dog-cart. His dark face brightened at the sight of her. He took the pipe from between his teeth and knocked out its contents on the heel of his boot.
“Better this morning?” he asked, as she came out.
She smiled at him, panting from her descent of the stairs, but resolutely ignoring her weakness. “Yes, I am much better. I am as strong as a horse to-day. Are you really going to drive me to the cornfields? How kind of you!”
“Jump up!” said Arthur. “You go to his head, Dolly! I’ll help Miss Thorold.”
He issued his orders with characteristic decision, and they were obeyed. Almost before she knew it, Frances found herself lifted on to the high seat where he wrapped a rug about her knees and pushed a cushion behind her.
The next moment he mounted beside her and took the reins. Dolly stepped back. The horse leaped forward.
“Hold on!” said Arthur.
They were out in the winding lane before Frances found breath to ask for Ruth. “Won’t she come with us? Have you forgotten her?”