"We'll see," she said, in a somewhat defiant tone, as they turned to go up the terrace.
There were still some "snowballs" on the great guelder rose-bushes, and the waxberries on the little one's gleamed like pearls.
"I like this place," said the child, suddenly.
"That's right, my dear."
They were up on the level of the house now, past the long veranda with the banned black benches. It was growing dusk, a time that under all conditions of this child's life made rude test of cheer. He drew nearer to the tall, bent figure. She dropped his hand, and stooped over the edge of clovered grass.
"What is it?" he asked, as she stood upright with something in her hand.
"A four-leaved clover—the third I've found to-day."
"Oh, do you think there are any more?"
He knelt down and examined the clump.
"You may have this," she said, presently, "and we'll come and look to-morrow, when we have a better light."