“There,” said the squire, tossing the bill from him, so that it floated on to the loaf and settled there, “I suppose we shall none of us think it worth while to ride or drive ten miles to see this wonderful performer.”
“Oh, I should so like to go!” cried Julia, when she had glanced through the bill.
“You, my child!” exclaimed her father in astonishment.
“Oh yes, father. Why not?”
“I should have thought,” said her aunt, “that you—”
But here her niece interrupted her. “O auntie, there can be no possible harm. No one will notice us; there will be thousands of people, and we shall be lost in the crowd. People are never so thoroughly alone as when they are in the middle of a great crowd.”
“And who is to go with you?” asked Mr Huntingdon.
“Oh, of course I don’t expect dear sober old Amos to go, he is quite above such things; but Walter might take me,—wouldn’t you, dear Walter?—Now, may I go, dear father, if Walter takes me? It will be such fun cantering there and back this delightful summer weather.” She looked at Walter beseechingly, and her father hem’d and ha’d, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s settled,” she cried, clapping her hands. “Now, Walter, you can’t say no.”
“When is it to come off?” asked the squire.
“Next Wednesday,” she replied. “Please don’t trouble about it,” she added; “it will be all right. I will be as grave as a duenna; and when I come back Amos shall read me an essay on prudence, and I will listen to every word and be so good.”