Inna was up, and dressed and looking out of her chamber window, when Oscar came into the paddock below to attend to some lambs.
“Hurry up, old lady! ’tis a glorious morning,” cried he, looking up and catching sight of her at the window.
She waved her hand and was gone. She had to fill the vases with flowers; one she always placed in her uncle’s study. Since Christmas Eve, when she carried in her holly spray, she always contrived some sort of a nosegay for him.
It was pleasant to hear her tripping feet, and her young voice singing little snatches of ditties, through the house; to see her stand and feed the chickens in the morning sunshine. A willing little handmaid was she anywhere, and to anybody who needed her.
“I know she begins to save me a deal,” Mrs. Grant said of her.
“Well, Sunbeam, what do I read in your eyes this morning?” said Mr. Barlow, meeting her in the passage.
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“An excursion to the sea—to Swallow’s Cliff.”
“’Tis well to be a young lady of leisure. Are you going to foot it?”
“No; we’re going in Dick Gregory’s donkey-cart.”
“Ah! and ’tis well to be young to bear such jolting.” He passed on.