“I’ll race you to see who gets the mail first,” Mrs. Burton called, and slipped off the porch, running swiftly and lightly over the damp earth, the three girls in pursuit.
“Here, David Murray, please give the letters to me, I’ve won,” she demanded, slightly out of breath and holding up her hands for the bag of mail, David having drawn rein to watch the contest.
“Yes, but of all the unfair races, this is the climax!” Alice protested, “seeing that you got away before the rest of us knew what you intended.”
“Perhaps, Alice, but considering my age and infirmities, I think I should have been allowed a slight advantage.”
“Your age and infirmities are not particularly apparent at this instant, Polly,” Miss Patricia announced drily from her seat in the wagon where she and Vera Lagerloff were enthroned surrounded by parcels, “but your lack of dignity undoubtedly is. Do go to your room and do something to your hair; this March wind has blown you to pieces.”
If Miss Patricia’s tone was severe, her satisfaction was none the less visible. Moreover, at this same instant her own strange, little gray felt hat, which she affected beyond all others, perhaps under the impression that it was suited to her present informal mode of life, had been tipped to one side, giving her the eccentric appearance to which her companions were accustomed.
“Very well, Aunt Patricia, I am ‘yours obediently,’ as the old-fashioned letter writers advise. Anyhow, I believe that is the form of signature you like best from me.”
Mrs. Burton, slipping her arms through Bettina Graham’s and Alice’s, started back toward the cabin, Sally climbing into the wagon beside David Murray, since she objected to all unnecessary exertion.
“I wonder had I been so autocratic as a Camp Fire guardian as Aunt Patricia has been with me if I should have met with equal success?” Mrs. Burton inquired laughingly.
Alice Ashton shook her head.