To please Marianne, whom they all loved, they agreed to this proposal. They went by the high-road; but Owen was not satisfied, because he saw that his companions did not comply for his sake; and as he walked on, he began to kick up the dust with his feet, saying, "I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane; I wish we were to come back this way—I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane: is not it, Marianne?"
Marianne could not say that she thought so.
Owen kicked up the dust more and more.
"Do not make such a dust, dear Owen," said she; "look how you have covered my shoes and my clean stockings with dust."
"Then, say, it is pleasanter here than in the lane. I shall go on, making this dust, till you say that."
"I cannot say that, because I do not think so, Owen."
"I'll make you think so, and say so too."
"You are not taking the right way to make me think so: you know that I cannot think this dust agreeable."
Owen persisted; and he raised continually a fresh cloud of dust, in spite of all that Marianne or his companions could say to him.—They left him, and went to the opposite side of the road; but wherever they went, he pursued—At length they came to a turnpike-gate, on one side of which there was a turn-stile; Marianne and the rest of the children passed, one by one, through the turn-stile, whilst Owen was emptying his shoes of dust. When this was done, he looked up, and saw all his companions on the other side of the gate, holding the turn-stile, to prevent him from coming through.
"Let me through, let me through," cried he, "I must and will come through."