"It is damp and chilly. It's
sure to rain presently. You'll get your feet wet. You should keep to
the gravel paths. They're plain enough, are they not?" She looked
about her, sniffing--a sniff that usually summoned disasters in a
flock.
"Oh, yes," said Tim; "and they look like brown sugar, _we_ thought."
"It does not matter what you thought, Timothy. The paths are made on
purpose to be walked upon and used--"
"They're beautifully made," interrupted Judy, unable to keep silent
longer. "WEEDEN made them for us."
"And we've used them all," exclaimed Tim, "only we came to an end of
them. We've done with them--paths!" The way he uttered the
substantives made it instantly sound ridiculous.
Aunt Emily opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again
without saying it. She stared at them instead. They watched her. All
fear of her had left their hearts. A new expression rose struggling
upon her pointed features. She fidgeted from one foot to the other.
They felt her as "Aunty," a poor old muddled thing, always looking in
ridiculous places without the smallest notion she was wrong. Tim saw
her suddenly "all dressed up on purpose" as for a game.
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