“I fancy he’ll find his way—Barry generally gets where he wants to go.”
“I had better drive back for him after I land you at home,” said Robin, without enthusiasm—visions crossing her mind of evening duties among the live stock. There was milking to be done, animals to be fed and poultry to be housed for the night. She had no mind to risk her ducklings among the foxes for the sake of a boy who had looked distinctly cross. Then she remembered his blood-smeared face and mentally rebuked herself for being a pig.
“No need for that, I think,” Dr. Lane was saying, pleasantly. “I can drive back, when I get Mrs. Lane to bed, if you will be kind enough to let me have the trap—I’ll promise not to send it over the edge, as I did the car!”
Robin brightened visibly.
“Certainly you can,” she said. “Old Roany will take you safely over any of these tracks—they’re really not fit for cars.” They jogged peacefully homewards.
“I hope I’m not jolting you very badly;” she said, presently, turning to look at the passenger in the rear. “The road isn’t wide enough to dodge the holes—I can only go slowly.”
“But I’m quite enjoying myself,” said the lady on the mattress. “Only, I want to be introduced, because you aren’t a bit what we expected to meet in the country! Our name is Lane, and we came from Melbourne yesterday for a holiday.”
“I’m Robin Hurst,” the girl told her, smiling down at the pretty face. “Mother and I live at Hill Farm.”
“But you haven’t always lived here?”
“Oh no. But I hope we’re always going to.”