“Hullo!” cried a merry voice. “Where are you going, Phyl? Stop this instant, and tell me.”
The words came from Squire Harringay. He was standing on the steps of the principal inn. He did not know his little daughter with her cheeks on fire, her eyes bright, her mane of hair standing out from her pretty neck, and four shabbily dressed but decidedly energetic children following her.
“Don’t keep me now, Dad,” was Phyllis’s answer. “I’ve found playmates, and I am going to have a real good time. I’ll tell you in the evening, but not now.”
The gay little party turned a corner and were soon lost to view. The Squire turned to a neighbour—
“That’s a pretty sight!” he exclaimed. “And who are those young termagants who, to all appearance, have made my little daughter lose her senses?”
“The Rectory children,” was the response; “quite the wildest young imps in the countryside.”
“Phyllis will be a match for them,” said her father, and he rubbed his hands in a contented manner.