“I don’t know. How old are you?”
“Seventeen last May. How old are you?”
“I am nineteen. Older than you by nearly two years,” said I, drawing myself up to my full height.
“I should not have thought you were above sixteen,” she replied, as quietly as if she were not saying the most provoking thing she possibly could. Then came a pause.
“What are you going to do now?” asked I.
“I should be dusting the bed-chambers; but mother said I had better stay and make it pleasant to you,” said she, a little plaintively, as if dusting rooms was far the easiest task.
“Will you take me to see the live-stock? I like animals, though I don’t know much about them.”
“Oh, do you? I am so glad! I was afraid you would not like animals, as you did not like books.”
I wondered why she said this. I think it was because she had begun to fancy all our tastes must be dissimilar. We went together all through the farm-yard; we fed the poultry, she kneeling down with her pinafore full of corn and meal, and tempting the little timid, downy chickens upon it, much to the anxiety of the fussy ruffled hen, their mother. She called to the pigeons, who fluttered down at the sound of her voice. She and I examined the great sleek cart-horses; sympathized in our dislike of pigs; fed the calves; coaxed the sick cow, Daisy; and admired the others out at pasture; and came back tired and hungry and dirty at dinner-time, having quite forgotten that there were such things as dead languages, and consequently capital friends.