“Why, because I do things without asking leave. It saves such a lot of trouble.”
Bertie looked rather scandalized.
“Do you mean you wouldn’t be allowed to play with me if people knew about it?”
“Papa wouldn’t mind,” answered Queenie, quickly; “he lets me do as I like. It’s only mamma who is so tiresome. Mamma wanted me never to go out alone, even in the garden, but papa said it was all nonsense, and that I might. I love papa twice as much as mamma. He’s just given me a pony to ride—such a pretty little pony, brown, with black legs! Would you like to come and see him?”
Bertie’s eyes were shining with a strange light.
“Yes,” he answered. “I should like it very much. I think—I must have had a pony—once.”
“Did you?” questioned Queenie, eagerly. “Oh, if you can ride, we can go out together sometimes. I’ll get papa to say we may. Now come and see my pony. Mamma is out, and papa won’t mind a bit if he does see you.”
Queenie had climbed the sunk fence once before Bertie had joined her, and had put the great trunk of the oak tree between herself and the chance of pursuit by nurse or any other attendant; but now she was eager to retrace her steps, and to display to her new companion the possessions of which she was most proud.
Bertie followed her willingly enough. He felt sure, after what the Squire had said, that he would not object, and as for Queenie’s odd statements regarding her relations with her parents, the little boy did not profess to understand them, nor did he, at the present stage of their acquaintance, feel called upon to interfere or criticise. Queenie’s fearless gaiety of manner exercised a certain fascination upon him, and he was quite ready to let her take the lead, whilst he humbly followed in her wake.
They climbed the sunk fence together, and then Queenie took his hand protectingly and led him up the meadow towards the back of the house.