“These are the first fruits of the season, Mr. Sutherland, and we offer them to you.”
“Let me first merit them, by helping you,” said Mark.
“Will you help me?”
“Certainly; that is, if I am not intruding on some housekeeping sanctuary.”
“Oh, no! this room is open and common to the whole family; why, it is the pleasantest room in the house, only as it is near the pantry and dining-room, and opens upon the kitchen garden, we prepare our fruit, and sometimes pick over our vegetables here.”
Mr. Sutherland drew a chair on the other side of the strawberry basket, and went to work—nobody could tell why—actuated by some whim, no doubt. After a little desultory conversation, Mr. Sutherland said,
“I believe, dear Rosalie, that I owe this situation to your friendly remembrance, and I have been waiting some hours for an opportunity of expressing my thanks.”
Rosalie’s face flushed to the temples.
“I am deeply obliged and grateful to my fair patroness.”
The blush deepened, crimsoning her face. She waved her hand deprecatingly, impatiently; she began—“Mr. Sutherland”—and stopped, as it were, choked.