“Tell me about it.”
“Well, it stands by itself just a little way out of our town. It is a country town, you know, with trees and gardens, and there are woods very near the cottage, and it has a big field next to it. There’s a little brook runs through the field and on into the woods.”
“Oh,” sighed Cassy, “how lovely! Is it a little, little cottage?”
“Not so very, very little; it has eight rooms, I think.”
“I’m afraid that’s much too big; but it’s nice to hear about it. Mother said—oh, dear, there I go again. Come, I want to show you such a dear little hiding-place I have under the bushes. I don’t believe you ever found it. Isn’t it too queer for anything that I should be living here all summer, when I always longed just to get behind these garden walls?”
“Yes, but we all think it is fine to have you.”
“I never, never expected to be so happy as I have been here.”
“And don’t you like John McClure?”
Cassy laughed, a pleased, half-embarrassed little laugh, and Eleanor looked at her, puzzled.
“What makes you laugh that way?”