“Not quite so bad as that,” laughed the Mayflower; “indeed, I think he knows. Dear Phil Temple,” and her expression changed, “often came here with me to help me to collect them, for I have a fernery at Woodside of which I am very proud.”
“I wonder if we could find some now?” asked John. “I know something about ferns, and can tell the rare ones.”
The Mayflower did not speak; in truth she was considering whether it would be quite proper for her to go fern hunting with a young man of whom she knew so little.
Perhaps John Temple saw, or thought he saw, the reason of her hesitation. He smiled; he looked in her bright fair face, and then he condescended to a subterfuge.
“I feel quite tired with my walk,” he said. “I wonder if you would think me rude or lazy if I were to sit down on the turf?”
Still the girl did not answer, but she smiled.
“May I?” asked John, emboldened by the smile.
“The turf is not mine, but the squire’s,” answered the Mayflower, still smiling; upon which John flung himself on the mossy grass not far from her feet.
“I call this luxury,” he said, stretching out his long limbs. “Fern Dene—so this is Fern Dene? Do you often come here, Miss Churchill?”
“Yes, very often; it’s a nice walk from home.”