“It will rain, I tell you!—it will rain!” cried Priscilla; “it always does when one wishes it to be fine! So you need not put on your bonnet, Lucy; there will be no boating for us to-day.”
“It is not raining one drop—the grass is quite dry,” replied Lucy, running for the twentieth time to the door.
“But the sea-weed that hangs there is quite soft and damp, and that is a sure sign of rain. Only see these black, heavy clouds!”
“Only see that dear little bit of bright blue between them! I think, Priscilla, that you are always looking out for clouds. I never notice them at all till the rain begins to drop!”
“That is because you are a thoughtless, foolish little thing!” observed her sister, with a kind of scornful pity.
“Well, I’m glad that I’m not so wise as you; I’d rather be merry than wise,” was the laughing Lucy’s reply.
This time, however, it appeared that the elder sister was the mistaken one. The patch of blue in the sky, to Lucy’s delight, became larger and larger; the sun shone out cheerfully; and, no longer afraid of the weather, both girls set out on their walk towards Ryde. They were there to meet their uncle, a boatman, who had promised them a row over the water to Portsmouth, where he was to show them the docks and feast them with cakes; and as the girls had never been to England before, having been both born and brought up in the Isle of Wight, they had both looked forward to this expedition for a very long time, though with different feelings, according to their different dispositions. Lucy was all delight at the thought of the pleasure—Priscilla all fear lest anything should occur to prevent their being able to enjoy it.
They made their way over the fields—the one mirthful, the other grave. They shortened part of the distance by passing along a lane; and a lovely lane it was, all adorned with wild-flowers.
“I like this path so much!” cried the happy little Lucy. “Such beautiful plants grow in the hedges, that, were I not in a very great hurry to get on, I should gather a splendid nosegay on the way!”