When it had advanced from the wood, it hopped much after the fashion of a kangaroo, using its hind feet and tail to propel it, and when it stood erect, it sat upon its tail.

But it's ever so much longer, and we're so late, grumbled Duncan. Who cares? cried Elsie, stolidly. I'm a girl and I'm not going to climb up the hill in this heat. Duncan stared again. He had never heard Elsie complain of the hill before. Usually they scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest side—not, truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other times. And now Elsie was walking along in a languid, mincing fashion, as if she had no more fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never scampered bare-foot over the moor six days out of every week, no matter what the weather might be. There's Robbie at the garden gate beckoning us. I expect mother's very angry, cried Duncan, despairingly. Who cares? let him beckon, Elsie replied, with the most provoking indifference. Run on by yourself if you're afraid.

It was a casual sneer, obviously one of a long line. There was hatred behind it, but of a quiet, chronic type, nothing new or unduly virulent, and he was taken aback by the flicker of amazed incredulity that passed over the younger man's ravaged face.

After the controversy of her public statement, she has been the darling of right-wing groups who have seized upon her as the poster child of their cause.