"I am afraid," said he looking at her, "that the agricultural turn has proved an over-match for your energies."
"The farm don't complain of me, does it?" said Fleda, looking up at him with a comic grave expression of countenance.
"No," said he laughing,--"certainly not; but--if you will forgive me for saying so--I think you complain of it,--tacitly,--and that will raise a good many complaints in other quarters--if you do not take care of yourself."
He shook hands and left them; and Mrs. Plumfield sat silently looking at Fleda, who on her part looked at nothing but the grey stocking.
"What is all this, Fleda?"
"What is what, aunt Miriam?" said Fleda, picking up a stitch with desperate diligence.
"Why did you want to run away from Mr. Olmney?"
"I didn't wish to be delayed--I wanted to get home."
"Then why wouldn't you let him go home with you?"
"I liked better to go alone, aunt Miriam."