“Yes, but if we should come up here next summer, and James should not prove constant, it would be something if she loved the country for its own sake.”
Just then Minerva came in with a dish of brains; a present from Bert’s father, who sent the pleasant message that they always threw the stuff away, but he knew that city folks had queer tastes.
“Minerva, what were you going to do this morning?” asked Ethel.
“Nothin’, ma’am,” said she innocently.
“You mean nothing in particular,” said Ethel, knowing that no impertinence was intended. “Suppose you take some of those new kitchen towels to hem and we’ll go out into the fields and I’ll tell you something about the flowers.”
“I got some sewin’ of my own to do if you’ll let me,” said Minerva.
“Why certainly. You know, Minerva, as long as you get your work done each day, I don’t care what you do for yourself.”
“No’m, I know you don’t. I don’t either ma’am.”
I looked up hastily, but Minerva was guiltless of any attempt at repartee. She was simply acquiescing with her mistress.
Having nothing better to do than loaf, I went with Ethel to a place called the wintergreen lot, about a half mile distant, and Minerva followed after with a lot of white stuff that reminded me strongly of the day I was married. I am not up in feminine fabrics, and the thing might have been mosquito netting.