The independent Miss Blythe, whom a certain clique of Junior Red Cross girls accused of being domineering and “bossy,” was thoroughly cowed.
“Thank you,” she said meekly, “but we must really go.”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Matilda Pitman, throwing open the door, “Your conveyance is ready for you. I told Robert he must hitch up and drive you to the station. I enjoy making Robert do things. It’s almost the only sport I have left. I’m over eighty and most things have lost their flavour except bossing Robert.”
Robert sat before the door on the front seat of a trim, double-seated, rubber-tired buggy. He must have heard every word his mother-in-law said but he gave no sign.
“I do wish,” said Rilla, plucking up what little spirit she had left, “that you would let me—oh—ah—” then she quailed again before Mrs. Matilda Pitman’s eye—“recompense you for—for—”
“Mrs. Matilda Pitman said before—and meant it—that she doesn’t take pay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where she lives do it, much as their natural meanness would like to do it. You go along to town and don’t forget to call the next time you come this way. Don’t be scared. Not that you are scared of much, I reckon, considering the way you sassed Robert back this morning. I like your spunk. Most girls nowadays are such timid, skeery creeturs. When I was a girl I wasn’t afraid of nothing nor nobody. Mind you take good care of that boy. He ain’t any common child. And make Robert drive around all the
