“We can stop long enough to read your letter, since you are so impatient.”
Molly let the speed of her gray filly slacken a little, and looked round at him with candid eyes.
“I would rather not,” she said.
“But there would be nothing improper in doing so, and I am not in a hurry,” he urged.
“Yes, I know; but I’m afraid. If I read the letter, and sis—I mean, Aunt Lucy—did not say yes, I should fly into a tantrum and alarm you,” with a sparkle of malice in the black eyes.
“I think I have seen you in a tantrum,” he replied, with equal malice. “But of course Aunt Lucy will say yes to any request of yours.”
She shook her curly head despondingly, but the filly had fallen unchecked into a slower pace.
“Ah, you don’t know, Mr. Laurens,” she said, dolorously. “You see, I wrote to Aunt Lucy that I was tired of Ferndale, and wanted to come home, but—but—I’m afraid she won’t let me go yet.”
“Tired of Ferndale?” he repeated.
“Yes, sick and tired,” she replied, emphatically. “I thought it would be jolly fun to come, at first, but I’ve been here three weeks now, and it’s the pokiest old hole I ever saw! I’d give anything to be back in Staunton.”