"I do not believe it," said a sturdy little boy, as he threw a ball of flowers into the lap of a little maiden opposite.
"What do you not believe?" asked a grave-looking girl who was seated near.
"That there is any hurry to get the pitchers filled."
"Did any one say there was?" asked the girl, glancing thoughtfully at the vessel hanging at her side, while I perceived that it had the look of being neglected and soiled.
"Yes, there was a proclamation this morning that the pitchers might be needed this very day, and that all who had not the Golden Oil should, without delay, repair to the place whence it could be obtained."
"So there is every day," exclaimed a tall youth who was lying on the grass at their feet. "That is nothing new: it is the duty of the Herald to proclaim, and it is our duty to hear, but——"
"No one ever thinks of obeying," laughed the roguish boy, weaving his flowers as if all his life were centred in doing that only.
But the thoughtful girl looked up with a deep flush at those careless words. "I do not think every one does that, Ashton; for Esther here——"
She pointed to a child at a little distance who was threading daisies together wherewith to deck a tiny brother, who sat watching her little fingers with absorbed interest.
Now that my attention was directed to this little girl, I took note of her for the first time. Her dress was of some white material, her eyes clear as the deep summer azure, her face full of sunshine, while close to her heart a golden pitcher gleamed in the light, as her happy little figure turned backwards and forwards in her task.