“Why, Virginia, I am delighted. You look the happiest girl in the land,” taking her hand and kissing her. “Oregon peach-bloom on your cheeks, too; I’ll wager you are just in from the farm, you hayseed.”
“Yes, and I’ve had the most delightful time,” replied the girl softly. “Romped over the fields of sweet-smelling clover, and through the orchards, and helped in the hay-field, too,” she laughed joyously.
“Hands up! I mean the palms,” said Mrs. Harris, in mock severity. “It must have been a silver rake you handled in the hay-field,” she resumed, after scrutinizing the palms of Virginia’s outstretched hands, “for there isn’t even a callous.”
“It is harvest time,” replied the girl, laughing, “and the harvest moon is death to callouses, you know.”
“We’ve missed you, dear, at Seaside,” said Mrs. Harris. “But still you look just as charming as though you had been there the entire season.”
“You rude flatterer. The seaside is nice, but I love our dear old farm home in the valley, best. Yet”—Virginia continued, demurely, with downcast eyes, “it seemed a little dull this year, and, you see, I have a reason for coming in before the harvest is over.”
As the girl stood with downcast eyes, her countenance appeared exquisitely regular, dignified and very beautiful.
“Ah, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, with admiration. “An affair of the heart—a man in it, eh, dear?—I know him. He will be here in a few moments—lucky fellow!”
“Will he?—are you sure?”
“Dear me! How joyful you are!” said Mrs. Harris, staring kindly at her.