“I hope we’ll soon start now,” said Marygold, “I don’t want to see Mr. Busson, I don’t, at all.”
“Not much fear of your seeing him,” said Fay, “if you keep indoors, like a good little girl.”
But Faith proved a false prophet.
For, just as the children were thinking of setting off, the door opened, and Mr. Busson put his dreaded head in.
“Now, you little gentlemen and ladies,” he began, “just you come along with me, and see what comes of meddling with what does not belong to you. Never too late to learn, or too early, says I.”
These last words were aimed at Marygold, who was shaking with fear.
So a very subdued procession followed the farmer, as he strode down the garden, and across the fowl-yard to the orchard, beloved of Gaston.
On plodded Mr. Busson through the long, rank grass, till he reached nearly the middle of the orchard. Then he paused.
“Now, here’s a pretty sight for you,” he said, “look at it. Look at it!”
This recommendation was entirely superfluous, however.