'What I shall take won't hurt,' said Nan, meekly.
So, next morning, Nan got up about eight; dressed, and was ready to start. That is to say, she never arranged her programme for the day with the slightest respect to meals. So long as she could get an apple and a piece of bread to put in her pocket she felt provided against everything. However, she thought she would go along to Madge's room, and see if that young lady had ideas about breakfast.
Madge's room was empty; and Nan thought it strange she should have gone downstairs without knocking at her door in passing. But when Nan also went below she found that Madge had left the house before any one was up. She could not understand it at all.
Mr. Tom came down.
'Oh,' said he, indifferently, 'she wants to be mighty clever and find out those ferns for herself.'
'But I did not tell her where they were. I only said they were on the road to ——' said Nan, naming the place: the writer has reasons of his own for not being more explicit.
'All the cleverer if she can find out. The cheek of the young party is pyramidal,' said Mr. Tom, as he rang for breakfast.
But at lunch, also, Madge had not turned up.
'It is very extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, though she was too languid to be deeply concerned.
'Oh no, it isn't, mother,' said Mr. Tom. 'It's all Nan's fault. Nan has infected her. The Baby, you'll see, has taken to tramping about the country with gipsies; and prowling about farmers' kitchens; and catching leverets, and stuff. We lives on the simple fruits of the earth, my dears; we eats of the root, and we drinks of the spring; but that doesn't prevent us having a whacking appetite somewhere about seven forty-five. Edith, my love, pass me the cayenne-pepper.'