"I am looking with all my eyes.—And they dare to call you a summer girl!" Magnus broke forth, watching the lovely pink cloud of colour that came and went with such swift changes.
"Will you please tell us what a summer girl is like?" said Violet. "She has danced about a good deal in your letters, but we everyday people don't know what she is. Come, boy, describe her."
"Her!" Magnus repeated. "She is to the full as plural as she is singular."
"Many of them at West Point, are there?" said Rose.
"Car loads; stunning, too, as they can be, some of them. Take your breath away. Say, girls, where's the old banjo? In existence yet?"
"Oh, dear, yes," said Rose. "Only no one has played it since you went away."
"And it is here, too," said Violet. "Mother made us bring it this morning, because she was sure Mr. Erskine would like to hear you sing."
Magnus laughed.
"Thought he couldn't wait until to-morrow," he said. "Or knew she couldn't. Mammy hasn't changed, that is plain. But I shall sing to Miss Erskine first. About her namesake—and some other things."
He jumped up and went for the banjo, placing himself then in the doorway where he could look down upon Cherry. She had put away the peas, and now had in her hand a bowl of yellow cream, which she was softly beating to a stiff froth. The other girls had finished their berries, and sat near her on the steps. Beyond, the honey bees hummed over clover and mignonette, the little brook tinkled along unseen. Behind him, Magnus could hear the pleasant murmur of the talk that went on within the house. Then a cow lifted up her voice and gave a long, plaintive moo, and a wren under the eaves poured out new tidings of the wealth that came to her every five minutes. Magnus leaned back his head against the doorpost and listened.