"I
like sweeping the garden and digging the potatoes far better."
"She keeps you busy then," commented Sir Eustace, with semi-humorous
interest.
"Busy isn't the word for it," declared Dinah. "I'm going from morning
till night. We do the washing at home too. I get up at five and go to bed
at nine. I make nearly all my own clothes too. That's why I haven't got
any," she ended naively.
He laughed. "Not really! But what makes you work so hard as that? You're
wasting all your best time. You'll never be so young again, you know."
"I know!" cried Dinah, and suddenly a wild gust of rebellion went
through her. "It's hateful! I never knew how hateful till I came here.
Going back will be--too horrible for words. But--" her voice fell
abruptly flat--"what am I to do?"
"I should go on strike," he said lightly. "Tell your good mother that she
must find someone else to do the work! You are going to take it easy and
enjoy yourself."
Dinah uttered a short, painful laugh.
"Wouldn't that do?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?" he questioned with indolent amusement. "Surely you're not
afraid of the broomstick!"
Dinah gave a great start, and suddenly, as they skated, pressed close to
him with the action of some small, terrified creature seeking shelter.
"Oh, don't--don't let us spoil this perfect night by talking of my home
affairs!" she pleaded, her voice quick and passionate.
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