"I'm not such a sun-worshipper as you are," answered Margaret, taking a seat on the bench in the shade.
"The sun's almost down. No, it isn't the sun, it's because you never in the world could stretch yourself out full length on the ground, as I'm doing now. The ground's nice and warm, and I love to lie on it; but you—you have always sat in chairs, you have been drilled."
"Yes, I have been drilled," answered Margaret, sombrely, looking at the graceful figure on the shawl.
Garda did not notice the sombre tone, her attention was up in the sky. After a while she said, "Mr. Winthrop hasn't been here to-day; I wonder why?"
"He won't be able to come so often while I am here, he will have to see to Aunt Katrina."
"Mist' Wintarp desiahs to know whedder you's tome, Miss Gyarda," said the voice of old Pablo. "I tole him I farnsied you was in de gyarden." Pablo recognized Garda as a Duero; he treated her therefore with respect, and benignant affection.
Winthrop now appeared at the garden gate, and Margaret rose.
"Perhaps I had better go in, too?" said Garda.
"No, stay as long as you like; I will send word, if your mother asks for you," Margaret responded.
She left the garden by another way. When she had gone some distance, she looked back. Garda had changed her position; she was still looking at the sky, though she was no longer lying at length; she had curled herself up, and was leaning against a dwarf tree. Winthrop was in Margaret's place on the bench, and Garda had evidently spoken to him of the sky, for he, too, was looking up.