“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he is offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.”
“I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head out of the window: “he’s only in the garden—Walter!”
“No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall leave you immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.”
“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window from without.
“Yes; I wanted to ask you—”
“Good-morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe squeeze.
“To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.” He departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she exclaimed, turning to me and still holding me fast by the hand, “I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be as good friends as ever before you go.”
“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated gravely knitting in her easy-chair. “Surely, you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady!”
“Well, mamma, you said yourself—” But the young lady was silenced by the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake of the head.
“Isn’t she cross?” whispered she to me; but, before I could add my share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a beautiful moss-rose in his hand.