“Very well, then, I’m off to begin operations,” said Di, springing to her feet. Tilting her hat over her eyes, and walking with a very leisurely step, Di took her way to the back regions of the farmhouse.
Poor Libbie, with her head and hands engaged in her bottling process, fell an easy prey to her wiles. If the truth were known, Libbie had been bitterly disappointed, and so had Mrs. Busson, by Andrew’s and Diana’s refusal to join the fair-going party. They had reckoned so confidently on securing a quiet, undisturbed afternoon for the “flasking and cellaring” of the cowslip wine, as Libbie termed it.
“Headaches, indeed! Stuff and nonsense,” she had said, “it’s just their contrariness, and that’s all. I’d like to give them a good dose of senna tea each, and lock them up in a dark room.”
So, when Di appeared in the doorway of the brew-house, she found exactly the kind of reception she would have chosen.
“Now I can’t have you worrying in here, Miss Di,” said Libbie, “for as you can see for yourself, there isn’t standing room for a well grown rat,” and she pointed to the regiment of dusty bottles with which the door was crowded. “Why dear me! I thought you had a bad headache. What ever has become of it so soon?”
“It never was a very bad one, besides I don’t make a fuss about things when I’m ill. I never do,” said Di, forgetting that never is a long word.
“Well, I can’t have either you or Master Andrew bothering in here, this afternoon,” said Libbie, “it’ll be your own faults, if you find it dull, but you must amuse yourselves as best you can. Only don’t go getting into mischief. I’ve got my work cut out for me, here.”
“And so have I,” thought naughty Di, only she took care not to say so.
“Very well,” she answered aloud, “then if you won’t let me help you Libbie, I’ll go now.”
And very slowly, Diana turned away and recrossed the threshold.