I held my peace, for of course Miss Cheriton must know what her father and sister would approve; but I did not like the notion at all, and I followed her somewhat reluctantly down the field. I would much rather have gone to Wheeler’s Farm and put ourselves under Molly’s protection. Most likely they would have placed a covered cart or waggon at our disposal, and we should all have enjoyed the fun. Gay was so simple and unconventional, that she saw no harm at all in going to the Red Farm; but I knew what Aunt Agatha would say, and I took all my notions of propriety from her. But the fates were against us, for just as we reached the stile there was Squire Hawtry himself, mounted as usual on Brown Peter, trotting quietly home. He checked Peter at once, and spoke in rather a concerned voice. “Miss Cheriton, this is very imprudent. There will be a storm directly. Those children will never get home.” He spoke to her, but I fancied he meant that reproachful look for me. No doubt I was the one to blame. “It was very wrong,” I stammered; “but we were talking, and did not notice. I want Miss Cheriton to hurry to Wheeler’s Farm.” “Oh, nonsense!” he said, abruptly; but it was such a pleasant abruptness; “the Red Farm is a mile nearer. Give the little girl to me, Miss Fenton, and then you can walk on quickly. I will soon have her under shelter.” There was no disputing this sensible advice, and as soon as Peter was trotting on with his double burden I followed as quickly as possible with Reggie. We were only just in time, after all. As I wheeled Reggie under the porch of the Red Farm the first heavy drops pattered down. I was in such haste, that I only stole a quick glance at the low red house, with its curious mullioned windows and stone porch. I had noticed, as we came up the gravel walk, a thick privet hedge, and a yew walk, and a grand old walnut tree in the centre of the small lawn with a circular seat. There were seats, too, in the porch, and a sweet smell of jasmine and clematis. Then the door opened, and there stood Mr. Hawtry, with a beaming face, and Joyce beside him, evidently pleased to welcome us all to the Red Farm. I lifted Reggie out of the perambulator and carried him into the hall. It had some handsome oak furniture in it: heavy carved cabinets and chairs, and a tall clock. There was a tiger skin lying before the fireplace. An open glass door led into a charming old-fashioned garden, with a bowling-green and a rustic arbour, and a long, straight walk, bordered with standard rosetrees. A tall, thin woman, with a placid face and grey hair, shook hands with Gay. Mr. Hawtry introduced her to me as “Mrs. Cornish, my worthy housekeeper,” and then bade her, with good-humoured peremptoriness, “to get tea ready as soon as possible in the oak room.” “I am afraid the drawing-room has rather a chilly aspect,” he continued, throwing open a door. “Should you not prefer sitting in my den, Miss Gay, until Mrs. Cornish tells us tea is ready?”