'You will be one if you are not the other,' said Mary, gathering her work up, with the dread of one used to tropical dews. 'Are not you coming in?'
'When I can persuade myself to write a letter of good advice, a thing I hate.'
'Which,' asked Mary; 'giving or receiving it?'
'Receiving, of course.'—'Giving, of course,' said Clara and Louis at the same instant.
'Take mine, then,' said Mary, 'and come out of the damp.'
'Mary is so tiresome about these things!' cried Clara, as their cousin retreated. 'Such fidgetting nonsense.'
'I once argued it with her,' said Louis, without stirring; 'and she had the right side, that it is often more self-denying to take care of one's health, than to risk it for mere pleasure or heedlessness.'
'There's no dew!' said Clara; 'and if there was, it would not hurt, and if it did, I should be too glad to catch a cold, or something to keep me at home. Oh, if I could only get into a nice precarious state of health!'
'You would soon wish yourself at school, or anywhere else, so that you could feel some life in your limbs,' half sighed Louis.
'I've more than enough! Oh! how my feet ache to run! and my throat feels stifled for want of making a noise, and the hatefulness of always sitting upright, with my shoulders even! Come, you might pity me a little this one night, Louis: I know you do, for Jem is always telling me not to let you set me against it.'