"I've travelled it ever since the year 1, I ought to know it," he
replied, contemptuously. "But you've got to wait for me."
"Oh, dear," sighed Marjorie, frightened at his insistence; then a quick
thought came to her: "Perhaps they will keep you all night."
"They won't, they always refuse. They don't believe I'm an angel
unawares. That's in the Bible."
"I'd ask them, if I were you," said Marjorie, in a coaxing, tremulous
voice; "they're nice, kind people."
"Well, then, I will," he said, hurrying on.
She lingered, breathing more freely; he would certainly overtake her
again before she could reach the next house and if she did not agree
with everything he proposed he might become angry with her. Oh, dear! how
queerly this day was ending! She did not really want anything to happen;
the quiet days were the happiest, after all. He strode on before her,
turning once in a while, to learn if she were following.
"That's right; walk slow," he shouted in a conciliatory voice.
By the wayside, near the fence opposite the gate he was to enter, there
grew a dense clump of blackberry vines; as the gate swung behind him, she
ran towards the fence, and, while he stood with his back towards her in
the path talking excitedly to a little boy who had come to meet him, she
squeezed herself in between the vines and the fence, bending her head and
gathering the skirt of her dress in both hands.
He became angry as he talked, vociferating and gesticulating; every
instant she the more congratulated herself upon her escape; some of the
girls were afraid of him, but she had always been too sorry for him to be
much afraid; still, she would prefer to hide and keep hidden half the
night rather than be compelled to walk a long, lonely mile with him.
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