Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly.
"Well, I'll go any day you say, then—so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can help'm with the la'nch. I know all about The Moth's machinery, if I don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come. It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you, though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up, canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order."
"Mother! Mother!"
Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the ravine.
"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she sought.
"Well?"
Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or manner.
"Mother—say—Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss Claire. I guess he's fearful worried."
"Did he say he was worried?"
"No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past breakfast-time."