And Dot laughed. Leaned against the fence skirting the road that seemed to run to eternity, and laughed outrageously.
Larrie stopped too. His face was very white and square-looking, his dark eyes held fire. He put his hands on the white, exaggerated shoulders of her muslin dress and turned her round.
"Go back to the bottom of the hill this instant, and pick up the child and carry it up here," he said.
"Go and insert your foolish old head in a receptacle for pommes-de-terre," was Dot's flippant retort.
Larrie's hands pressed harder, his chin grew squarer.
"I'm in earnest, Dot, deadly earnest. I order you to fetch the child, and I intend you to obey me," he gave her a little shake to enforce the command. "I am your master, and I intend you to know it from this day."
Dot experienced a vague feeling of surprise at the fire in the eyes that were nearly always clear, and smiling, and loving, then she twisted herself away.
"Pooh," she said, "you're only a stupid over-grown, passionate boy, Larrie. You my master! You're nothing in the world but my husband."
"Are you going?" he said in a tone he had never used before to her. "Say Yes or No, Dot, instantly."
"No," said Dot, stormily.