“Now, are you quite sure, mother, you will not miss me?” asked Margery, kneeling by the couch when all her duties were done.
“Nay, that I cannot say,” Mrs. Morris returned, with a faint smile. “I always miss you, child; but I shall not want you. Mrs. Carter is coming in to see me, and Reuben has promised to come home for dinner.”
“Reuben will keep his word, then,” declared the girl; “but I shall not be away long.”
“Stay and amuse yourself, Margery—you are young, and should have pleasure. Now, get on your bonnet and start, or you will keep the young squire waiting.”
Margery tied on her sunbonnet. At first she had been tempted to don her Sunday hat, a plain, wide-brimmed straw with a white ribbon, but she checked herself and put it away, with a blush at her vanity. She took her little basket, and, walking slowly toward the spring, sat down by its musical trickling to wait. She felt more than ordinarily happy; the memory of Stuart’s kind words had driven away the sting of his cousin’s remark; there was not a cloud on the horizon of her young life. She wanted for nothing to complete her happiness, and reveled in the sunshine and the golden glory of summer as only a heart can that has tasted no sorrow, seen not the darkness or gloom of pain.
She had not waited long before the sound of hastening footsteps told her that Stuart was at hand; and she bent to caress the dogs as he approached, thus hiding the pleasure that dawned on her face.
“I am fearfully late, Margery,” Stuart said, apologetically, as he flung himself down on the cool, mossy bank. “By Jove! though, I had no idea I could walk so fast. I have come here in no time.”
“You do look tired,” she said, quickly; “let us rest a while. Shall I get you some milk?”
Stuart shuddered. The thought recalled all the horrors of Judy’s draught that summer morning.
“No, thanks; I will have some water. Do you know, Margery, I don’t believe I can go very much further. What do you say to a picnic in the Weald wood?”