The whole way down was so thick with crane’s-bill that the air was strong with its geranium savour.
“No,” said George. “For once, Prue, I will fetch the water, and you bide here.”
Then the young man caught up the brown pitchers and descended the path. In ten minutes he was back with them brimming over.
“Now,” said Prue, “we will have another swing, only I will sit nearer the middle. I do not want to have a bad fall.”
“Why should you have a bad fall?”
“You might punish me for giving you one.”
“I am not like to do that.”
“I had rather not trust you.”
So they swayed up and down.