“Why, what’s the matter, Will?” Her voice was anxious and tender. “Have you hurt your ankle, running?” “No, no!” he said petulantly. “Didn’t you hear me say I’d never patronize a woman carrier?” She smiled in relief. “Yes—I heard you say it. But that was the silly you.” His face hardened. “Silly or sensible, I stick to my word.” “Drumsticks!” she mocked again. “Jump up and tell me all about your affair with Miss Flippance.” “Don’t be saucy, Jinny. It don’t become you:” For the life of him he could not accept her as grown up, much less as an equal, though she sat on high, dominating the situation, whip in hand and horn at girdle, spick and span and cool; while he, astride the stile, was a forlorn figure, with dusty shoes and hot, lowering look. “It becomes me as much as silliness does you,” said Jinny. “I don’t see the silliness.” “Why, you can’t live a week at Frog Farm without patronizing me. Who else is there? There isn’t hardly a trap to be had even miles around. Why there was a young man I drove out to Frog Farm last week, and a fine to-do he had getting home!” It was not calculated to soothe him. “And what need had you to drive a young man?” “It was for Maria—your mother’s pig. She was ill; her whole litter might have been lost.” He frowned more darkly. Pigs, he had but just admitted, might reasonably come into the feminine ambit: still, if girls did get to know coarse facts, they might at least have the decency not to talk about them. “And did he call you Jinny?” he grunted. “He didn’t call me Maria.” “Well, traps or no traps,” he said sullenly, “you’ll get no orders from me. I’ve fended for myself in the Canadian backwoods, where there wasn’t even a woman to sew on buttons, and I certainly don’t need one now.” But she was still smiling. “Do you know the song of the dashing young lad from Buckingham?” “I know _you_ do. But what’s that to do with it?” She re-started the merry tune, but markedly altered the words: “_A dashing young lad from—Canada,_ _Once a great wager did lay_ _That he’d never use Jinny the Carrier,_ _But—he gave her an order straightway!_” “No, he won’t.” “Don’t interrupt. You’ve already given it. _But still he’d sing fol de rol iddle ol——_” “_What_ order have I given you?” “To carry your box, of course— _Still he’d sing fol de-rol lay——_” “But that was before I had the ghost of an idea——” “Do join in the chorus: _Still he’d sing fol de rol iddle ol——_” “I’ll have my trunk at once!” he cried furiously, and sprang off the stile. “_Fol de rol arilol lay!_” she wound up with easy enjoyment. “Give me my trunk,” he commanded again. “What—on this lonely road—in this weather!” “That’s my business!” “No, it isn’t—it’s mine.” She touched up Methusalem and turned his eager nose homewards. Will ran round with the turning animal. “Give me my trunk!” He was white with determination.