"I spoke for the Rangeley boat, and now she wants it. She always wants it, and it isn't fair."
"I don't always want it, Willy! I haven't been in it for two days. I think you are very unkind."
By this time Mrs. Merryweather had finished her sentence; she looked up, and surveyed the two children with a half-abstracted gaze.
"Who are you?" she asked, abruptly. "I thought Kitty and Willy were here."
Kitty took hold of the hem of her apron, and Willy felt of the knife in his pocket.
"Who are you?" repeated Mrs. Merryweather in a tone of wonder. "You should always answer a question, you know."
"We are Kitty and Willy ourselves!" murmured the children, the red beginning to creep around their ears.
"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Merryweather, reprovingly. "Don't say such things as that, my dears. I know Kitty and Willy perfectly well; they are brother and sister, two cheerful, affectionate children, who love each other. I don't know anything about you two; run away, please, for I am busy."
As the children moved slowly away, she called after them: "If you should see Kitty and Willy, you might send them to me, if you please!"
Round on the other side of the big oak-tree, sheltered from the eyes that looked so abstractedly over their glasses, Willy rubbed his shoulders uncomfortably against the bark, while Kitty kicked a bit of stick to and fro.