“Then may we go, Mother?”
“Well, you must ask Father. I couldn’t let you go without his consent.”
“But may we say you say we may?”
“Is that a poem?” asked Rex solemnly, “or just a ‘hidden-word’ competition?”
“Oh, be quiet, donkey!” said Billy, joining in the general laugh. “You know what I mean, Mother—may we?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Weston. “If you’ll really promise to be careful.” Then, as the racing feet of the petitioners carried them out of earshot, “You really think it’s safe, girls?”
“I don’t see how they can get into any trouble,” Jean said: “Rex can ride quite decently, and Merrilegs is so steady. And they can swim—not that there’s enough water in the river to drown them, even if they couldn’t.”
“And I do like to see Rex getting independent,” added Jo. “He’s twice the boy he was, in that respect. They’ll feel just like men, going off together on their own account, bless them!”
“Father says we may!” shrilled a high, ecstatic voice from afar off: and in a moment Rex was back at the window, flushed and eager.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Weston! And Billy’s gone to run the ponies up, and he says, please, twins, will you fix up some grub for us—lots of grub, please? I’m off to help him.” He was gone, like an arrow.