“What?” said Comfort.

“It ain’t mor’n three miles to Bolton.  Mother’s walked there, and so has Imogen—­”

“Do you s’pose—­we could?”

“I don’t b’lieve it would hurt us one mite.  Say, I tell you what we can do:  I’ll take my sled, and I’ll drag you a spell and then you can drag me, and that will be riding half the way for both of us, anyhow.”

“So it will,” said Comfort.

But Matilda looked doubtful again.  “There’s only one thing,” she said.  “Mother ain’t at home—­she and Rosy went over to grandma’s to spend the day this morning—­and I can’t ask her.  I don’t see how I can go without asking her, exactly.”

Comfort thought miserably, “What would Matilda Stebbins say if she knew I took that ring when my mother told me not to?”

“Well,” said Matilda, brightening, “I don’t know but it will do just as well if I ask Imogen.  Mother told me once that if there was anything very important came up when she was away that I could ask Imogen.”

Imogen was Matilda’s eldest sister.  She was almost eighteen, and she was going to a party that night, and was hurrying to finish a beautiful crimson tibet dress to wear.

“Now don’t you talk to me and hinder me one moment.  I’ve everything I can do to finish this dress to wear to the party,” she said, when Matilda and Comfort went into the sitting-room.

“Can’t I go to Bolton with Comfort Pease, Imogen?” asked Matilda.

“I thought you were going with Uncle Jared—­didn’t mother say you might?  Now don’t talk to me, Matilda.”

“Uncle Jared’s got to go to Ware to buy the horse, and he can’t take us.”

“Oh, I forgot.  Well, how can you go, then?  You and Comfort had better sit down and play checkers, and be contented.”

“We could walk,” ventured Matilda.

“Walk to Bolton?  You couldn’t.”

“It’s only three miles, and we’d drag each other on my sled.”

Imogen frowned over a wrong pucker in the crimson tibet, and did not appreciate the absurdity of the last.  “I do wish you wouldn’t bother me, Matilda,” said she.  “If I don’t get this dress done I can’t go to the party to-night.  I don’t know what mother would say to your going to Bolton any such way.”

“It wouldn’t hurt us a mite.  Do let us go, Imogen.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what you can do,” said Imogen.  “You can walk over there—­I guess it won’t hurt you to walk one way—­and then you can ride home in the stage-coach; it comes over about half-past four.  I’ll give you some money.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful!  Thank you, Imogen,” cried Matilda, gratefully.

“Well, run along and don’t say another word to me,” said Imogen, scowling over the crimson tibet.  “Wrap up warm.”

When they started, Matilda insisted upon dragging Comfort first in the sled.  “I’ll drag you as far as Dr. Hutchins’s,” said she.  “Then you get off and drag me as far as the meeting-house.  I guess that’s about even.”