“You are nothing but a college freshman,” she told him, coolly, “and a very fresh freshman at that! Don’t you think for a minute that you are a grown-up young man—you are not. And I am only three months, or so, older than I was when we parted in New York. It’s going to be a long, long time before either Doro or I will begin to think seriously of young men. Besides—you’re not a twin,” she added, and ran away from him, leaving poor Bob greatly puzzled by her final phrase.
They were going back to Glenwood a day early, because of Tom’s anxiety. When the train reached the school station only Tavia got off; Dorothy went on to Belding with Celia’s brother.
At the station they hired a carriage and an hour later drove into the lane leading to Mrs. Hogan’s home.
It was the first real spring day. The grass “was getting green by the minute,” so Tom said; the trees were budding bountifully; every little rill and stream was full and dancing to its own melody over the pebbles; the early feathered comers, from swamp and woodland, were splitting their throats in song.
And when the two drove into the yard there were sounds of altercation from the house—the first harsh sounds they had heard since starting from Belding.
“And that’s the way ye do ut—heh?” exclaimed Mrs. Hogan’s strident voice. “After all I been tellin’ yez. Ye air the most impident, useless, wasteful crature that ever I come across! An’ not a bit of gratichude have ye for me takin’ yez out of the Findling an’ givin’ ye a home, an’ sumpin’ to ate, an’ a place ter lie down in.’ Bad ’cess ter yez, Cely Moran! Sorry the day I ever tuk yez——”
“I—I’m so sorry,” interposed Celia’s feeble little voice. “Won’t—won’t you please take me back there, ma’am?”
“Tak’ ye back where?” demanded the woman, in an uglier tone, were that possible. “Tak’ ye back where?”
“To the Findling, ma’am. Oh, dear me!” sobbed Celia, “I was a great deal happier there!”
“Ungrateful——”