“Shoo! get away! you are an old cross patch,” cried Nan, ungratefully, as she gave up the attempt in despair; and poor Mooly walked on with a gentle gurgle of surprise and reproof.
“Each can have a sip, and then we must take a walk. We shall go to sleep if we don’t; and lost people mustn’t sleep. Don’t you know how Hannah Lee in the pretty story slept under the snow and died?”
“But there isn’t any snow now, and it’s nice and warm,” said Rob, who was not blessed with as lively a fancy as Nan.
“No matter, we will poke about a little, and call some more; and then, if nobody comes, we will hide under the bushes, like Hop-o’-my-thumb and his brothers.”
It was a very short walk, however, for Rob was so sleepy he could not get on, and tumbled down so often that Nan entirely lost patience, being half distracted by the responsibility she had taken upon herself.
“If you tumble down again, I’ll shake you,” she said, lifting the poor little man up very kindly as she spoke, for Nan’s bark was much worse than her bite.
“Please don’t. It’s my boots—they keep slipping so;” and Rob manfully checked the sob just ready to break out, adding, with a plaintive patience that touched Nan’s heart, “If the skeeters didn’t bite me so, I could go to sleep till Marmar comes.”
“Put your head on my lap, and I’ll cover you up with my apron; I’m not afraid of the night,” said Nan, sitting down and trying to persuade herself that she did not mind the shadow nor the mysterious rustlings all about her.
“Wake me up when she comes,” said Rob, and was fast asleep in five minutes with his head in Nan’s lap under the pinafore.