Cousin Chilian nodded. Elizabeth rose stiffly and went in. Eunice pulled out her knitting. It was so lovely here. There were the warmth and perfume of summer and the rich fragrance of ripening fruits and grass mown for feed, not snipped with a lawn-mower, such things had not been heard of even in the rapidly improving Salem.
"There are some countries where people live out of doors nearly all the time," began Eunice reflectively. "Well, they do a good deal in India. But I think this is in Europe. And this is so lovely, so restful. But I'm afraid you have affronted Elizabeth by not insisting Mrs. Turner should walk into the parlor. Though really—we had not returned her last call. I do wish Elizabeth could find some time to get out. I don't see why there should be so much work."
"Couldn't you have some one to help?"
"Well, it isn't just the cooking and kitchenwork. And no one could suit her there. She's up in that old garret toiling, and moiling, and packing away enough things to furnish an inn. We shall never want them. And there's your mother's, and some of your grandmother's, blankets."
"The New England thrift is rather too thrifty sometimes," he commented dryly.
Cynthia staid after Mrs. Turner made her adieus. Indeed, as it was nearing supper-time, he walked over for her. She and Betty were in the wide-seated swing and Ben was swinging them so high that Betty, used as she was to it, gave now and then little squeals. Chilian held up his hand and Ben let the "cat die," which meant the swing stopping of itself.
"Oh, Mr. Leverett, can't Cynthy stay to tea? I'll run and ask mother."
"Not to-day. She had better come home now."
"Oh, dear!" cried Bentley disappointedly.
"Yes, I had better go. And I've had such a lovely time. Cousin Chilian, can't I come over again?"