“You will not leave me yet? Just one moment more. I have not spoken to you alone for so long, and you are so good to give me this opportunity.”
“I give it? What do you mean, sir?” Lettice’s blue eyes grew dark with disapproval.
“You sent off your maid, you know,” he murmured deprecatingly.
“That you might speak to me alone? You are mistaken, sir; it was all on account of the turkey-hen; I had forgotten your existence.”
“Forgive me.”
“I will try to; but I am sorry I cannot listen to your confidences about Rhoda. I forgot entirely that I promised Sister Betty that I would see to the syllabub.”
“You know it isn’t Rhoda,” persisted the young man.
“Oh, isn’t it? Well, never mind; it is Becky Lowe, probably. She told me you were there last week. No, another time. You will excuse me, I know, and I shall see you at tea time. There comes Brother William, if your call was upon him. He will be glad to see you. Adieu.” And Lettice, with work-bag dangling from her wrist, and Moore’s poems under her arm, ran swiftly up the garden walk to the house. She held her sunbonnet closely together, and her hands were covered with long sheepskin mittens, lest the sun should mar the whiteness of her skin. Her sister Betty met her by the grape arbor; she was similarly protected, and had a light basket on her arm.
“Law, Lettice, what makes you run in the sun?” she said. “Why didn’t you come around the other way?”
“I wanted the shortest way,” returned Lettice, panting a little, and letting go the strings of her bonnet.