“Say, Horace; say, can I drive?” Walter was repeating impatiently.
“Yes, Elsie says you may.”
“Then I’m going too,” cried Enna, stepping in.
“No, En, you can’t go bareheaded and with nothing round you; and there’s not time to wait for you to fix; and I’ll not have you, because you’ll do nothing but scold and quarrel all the way.”
“No, she won’t, for I shall be close at hand to keep her in order,” said Mr. Dinsmore, remounting his horse.
“And here comes Fanny with a hood and shawl for me,” said Enna, as a servant-maid came hurrying out with the articles mentioned.
Walter, like the gentlemanly little fellow he was when not provoked beyond endurance by Enna’s temper and wilfulness, helped the girl to wrap the shawl about his sister’s shoulders, the hood was tied on, and they were off; down the avenue and out into the road they went, the ponies at a brisk trot, Mr. Dinsmore’s horse side-by-side with the phaeton.
“What a splendid little turnout it is!” exclaimed Walter. “Wish I had one like it.”
“You have a good pony,” said his brother, “and I should think would, at least as a general thing, prefer riding to driving.”
“Horace, mayn’t I drive?” asked Enna in a whining tone.