Rose jumped up and down, stiff-legged with joy.
“What jolls! Oh, do take us to visit some little girl again.”
“Please,” begged Ruth, hugging herself breathless, as she did at times when stirred beyond control.
“I thought of taking you to see another child even lonelier than you two ever thought of being. She’s quite a way off—back in the seventeenth century, and in Devonshire, or Exmoor, if you prefer it—into the bargain. But we’ve a long rainy day before us.”
“Who is she, fairy?”
“Her name’s Lorna—Lorna Doone. I’ve told her to expect you, so perhaps we’d best be off at once.”
“Lorna,” gasped Ruth. “Oh, Rose, remember?”
Rose nodded. “We had her book last Christmas. Shall we see John Ridd, too?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. And now give me your hands.”
Which of course they did, and had their little thrill of a fall as they shut their eyes, and opened them to find themselves standing beside a flowing brook, with green forest trees bending overhead.