The pedlar knew
the country, and had chosen the least frequented way. Had they by any
chance met a carriage or cart, even when crossing the high road, he
would not have dared to risk being seen with the children, but in that
case he would no doubt have hurried off, leaving them to find their way
home as best they might. But no such good fortune having befallen them,
on they trotted--hand-in-hand for the most part, though by this time
several stumbles had scratched and bruised them, and their flying hair,
flushed faces and tumbled clothes made them look very different from the
little "master and missy" Biddy had sent out into the peaceful garden to
play that sweet April afternoon.
_Why_ they went on, they could not themselves have told. Often in after
years, and when they had grown older and wiser, they asked themselves
the question. It was not exactly fear, for as yet the man had not
actually spoken roughly to them, nor was it altogether a feeling of
shame at giving in--it was a mixture of both perhaps, and some strange
sort of fascination that even very wise people might not find it easy to
explain. For every time their steps lagged, and they felt as if they
could go no farther, a glance over his shoulder of the man in front
seemed to force them on again.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68