“Three o’clock,” yawned Jack Fleming, at last. “We ought to go and see if those strawberries are drying up, don’t you think?”
“We ought to be about it, if we’re going to take any home,” assented Marjorie; and they all rose slowly and strolled to the garden again. The berries were so large and so plentiful, that in a very few minutes every basket was filled to the brim.
“Eunice, you and Cricket run down to the farm-house and ask ’Manda for some big pails,” ordered Marjorie, in true, older-sisterly fashion.
“All right,” answered Eunice, obediently. “Come on, Cricket. Where is she? Crick-et!”
“Here I am,” answered a forlorn little voice.
“Here,” was in the grape arbour near by. Cricket was discovered sitting huddled up in a little bunch, with her head on her knees.
Marjorie hurried across to her.
“Why, poor little Cricket! What is the matter?”
“Nothing, I guess, ’cept my head aches so,” Cricket replied, rather dismally. Her sunny little face was very pale and her eyes looked heavy and dark.
“Poor child!” said Marjorie, sympathetically, sitting down beside her. “It’s the hot sun, I think. Come down to the farm-house with me, and ’Manda will let you lie down for a while.”