"Well, you had better leave it at home the next time you go on a wild goose chase."
"There won't be any next time," said Judy, with a sober face.
Launcelot looked up from the coin with a quick smile, which faded as she gave a hoarse little cough.
"Go into the house, child," he ordered, "you will take cold out here—"
"Oh," in that moment Judy was herself again, tempestuous, defiant, "don't be so bossy, Launcelot."
"Go in," he said again, but she threw up her head and lingered.
"What a beautiful morning it is," she said. "Look, Launcelot, the sun, it is like a ball of gold through the mist."
But Launcelot was looking at her—at the melancholy little figure in the trailing red gown, with the dark hair braided down on each side of the white face, and hanging in a long braid at the back.
"Go in," he said, for the third time, peremptorily. "You are tired to death, and you will be sick—"