"That may be. I suppose I am not so uncharitable as to be rebuked for every little word; but to go about the country destroying people's good grass, for which I paid a shilling a pound, is not gentlemanly. Katherine, what are you laughing at?"
"At the stones," says Kit.
"There is nothing to laugh at in a stone. Don't be silly, Katherine. I wonder, Monica, you don't make it the business of your life to instil some sense into that child. The idea of standing still to laugh at a stone."
"Better do that than stand still to cry at it," says the younger Miss Beresford, rebelliously. Providentially, the remark is unheard; and Monica, scenting battle in the breeze, says, hastily,—
"Do you remember the roses at Aghyohillbeg, auntie? Well, I don't think any of them were as fine as this," pointing to a magnificent blossom near her. It is the truth, and it pleases Miss Priscilla mightily, she having a passion for her roses. And so peace is once more restored.
"It grows chilly," says Miss Penelope, presently.
"Yes; let us all go in," says Miss Priscilla.
"Oh, not yet, auntie; it is quite lovely yet," says Monica, earnestly. She cannot go in yet, not yet; the evening is still young, and—and she would like so much to go down to the river, if only for a moment. All this she says guiltily to herself.
"Well we old women will go in at least," says Miss Penelope. "You two children can coquet with the dew for a little while; but don't stay too long, or sore throats will be the result."
"Yes, yes," says Miss Priscilla, following her sister. As she passes Monica, she looks anxiously at the girl's little slight fragile figure and her slender throat and half-bared arms.