She knew by his look; he could not keep in the fun.
"'May you'? When you have, already!"
"O no, I haven't! I mean, come down? Into the one-pleasant-little-place, and help?"
"You don't know the way," Barbara said, stolidly, turning back again, and folding up the waist.
"Don't I? Which,—to come down, or to help?" and Harry flung himself over the rail, clasped one hand and wrist around a copper water-pipe that ran down there, reached the other to something-above the window,—the mere pediment, I believe,—and swung his feet lightly to the sill beneath. Then he dropped himself and sat down, close by Barbara's elbow.
"You'll get sprinkled," said she, flourishing the corn-whisk over a table-cloth.
"I dare say. Or patted, or punched, or something. I knew I took the risk of all that when I came down amongst it. But it looked nice. I couldn't help it, and I don't care!"
Barbara was thinking of two things,—how long he had been there, and what in the world she had said besides what she remembered; and—how she should get off her rough-dried apron.
"Which do you want,—napkins or pillow-cases?" and he came round to the basket, and began to pull out.
"Napkins," says Barbara.