"Louise," she said in an imperative undertone, "tell John to turn back and take me home. I must go back this minute. If you think anything of me," she added hastily, interposing against remonstrance, "do as I ask."
"Now, Linda, listen to reason. If you've made up your mind to go back and eat humble-pie—excuse the truth—at least wait till after dinner and Sam shall drive you back. It would be absurd to turn back now."
"Louise—you don't understand my feeling. I was wrong to come. Robert was to come home early this evening and bring an old friend just from England with him to stay a few days. Think how mortifying to find me gone away!"
"It would look badly. Still—serve him right!"
"No, I was cross myself this morning—probably. I didn't mean to tell you of our quarrel—our half quarrel. But never mind talking about it, only, please take me back. Or else let me walk? I can walk; it's not far."
"Linda Fitzhugh! Well, then—John, Mrs. Meeks has forgotten an important engagement and we must take her straight home again. Can you turn the carriage here?"
"Reckon I kin, m'm," said John sulkily, and the horses were turned about.
Mrs. Gourlay glanced at her watch and said resignedly:
"It will be half-past one by the time I am back, and the children will be savage, for I promised them I wouldn't stay long this morning. But you always have your own way with me, Linda. I wish you were half as spunky with somebody else."