“Yes,” said Rosalie. “I’ve been saying to myself over and over Emerson’s poem,—
‘Who hath named the birds without a gun?’”
Betsy regarded her with the one-sided smile.
“Still speak poetry, do you, even though you do bring folks their soup?”
“Oh, yes.” Rosalie gave her head a sad little shake. “When I stop thinking and feeling poetry, I shall have stopped breathing.”
Everybody was commenting on the curious action of the beautiful wild creature in the forest, Robert declaring that he had buck fever.
When the excitement had subsided, he leaned forward to Irving’s ear.
“Your faithful retainer has found her tongue,” he said. “She and Uncle Henry’s Hebe are talking thirteen to the dozen.”
“Has Mr. Derwent a Hebe on board?”
“Yes. A genius who has brought him good coffee for two meals. Watch him head for her table this noon; and she’s unnecessarily pretty.”