"Wait a bit," said Guy.
Soon the baskets were full. And sitting down to rest, Lizzie made a thick wreath, with a plait of rushes for a foundation, all stuck full of primroses; then she got up and came behind Clarice and put it on her head. Clarice's hat was not in the way in the least; she had left it in the boat.
"Isn't that becoming?" said Lizzie, turning up the beautiful little flushed, sunburnt face, that Helen might see it.
"Oh, Clarice is the beauty of the family," remarked Helen, gaily.
"I'd rather have nice light hair like yours," exclaimed Clarice, "and then Katty wouldn't call me a gipsy! What does she know about gipsies, though? There are none in Ireland."
"Are you sure of that, Clarice?" asked Guy, earnestly. "Oh dear, what a pity! For I'm writing a story all about gipsies, and I meant to make them live in the rooks here, and come over and steal our chickens."
"I'd like to catch them!" said Aymer, who was lying on his back half asleep.
"Have you got the story in your pocket, Guy?" inquired Lizzie. "I should like to read it."
"No, it's at home. And you couldn't read it. I can't read it myself—only I know what I mean." And Guy stood on his head for a moment, as a delicate hint that the conversation was becoming prosy.
"You can describe this place, Guy, and say it's in England," said Clarice, with a fine disregard for literary accuracy. "Don't stand on your head, Guy! Mother says I must not, and so you shan't. Now I'll tickle your feet, mind, if you don't stop."