“Well, what is that?” she asked sharply.
“A barley-cake.”
“Who bade you bring it to me?”
“Mamma.”
“You would not have brought it if mamma had not bid you?”
“No.”
“Allow me to suggest,” observed papa, “that they would not have ventured. It would be a liberty unbecoming their years to—”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Lady Carse; “I hate these put-up manners. No, miss—no, young master—I will not take your cake. I take gifts only from those I love; and if you don’t love me, I don’t love you—and so there is a Rowland for your Oliver.”
The children did not know anything about Rowlands and Olivers; but they saw that the lady was very angry—so angry that they took to their heels, scampered away over the downs, and never stopped till they reached home, and had hidden themselves under the bed.