"But it's ever so much longer, and we're so late," grumbled Duncan.
"Who cares?" cried Elsie, stolidly. "I'm a girl and I'm not going to climb up the hill in this heat."
Duncan stared again. He had never heard Elsie complain of the hill before. Usually they scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest side—not, truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other times. And now Elsie was walking along in a languid, mincing fashion, as if she had no more fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never scampered bare-foot over the moor six days out of every week, no matter what the weather might be.
"There's Robbie at the garden gate beckoning us. I expect mother's very angry," cried Duncan, despairingly.
"Who cares? let him beckon," Elsie replied, with the most provoking indifference. "Run on by yourself if you're afraid."
Most unkind taunt of all. Did not Elsie well know that Duncan was bound to her by the chains of a most unswerving, unquestioning loyalty? and that though he was, so to speak, ready to jump out of his skin with impatient anxiety, to forsake Elsie would never enter his simple little head.
When Robbie saw that they did not hurry, he came running towards them, calling out, "Elsie, Duncan, do make haste! Mother's so cross. You are late."
"Are we? And are you in a hurry, Robbie? because if you are you'd better fetch the milk yourself another time. Duncan and I are not your servants," Elsie replied, loftily.
Robbie stared, as well he might. "I only know mother's very cross," he reiterated dubiously, as if not quite knowing what to say; "and I don't think you know how late it is."
"Look here," cried Elsie, standing stock still: "suppose I tip this milk over on to the heather, what'ud you say to that?" and she lifted up the lid, and tilted the can, until the foaming white milk was just ready to pour over the side.