"She lives at the farm-house yonder—she and Uncle Reuben. They are the best old souls! So this is what you were doing," she abruptly added, picking up the sketch. "You wouldn't think I could draw, but I can," with a proud little toss of the hair.
"I would think you could do anything," he gallantly replied.
But she was intent upon the picture, with its bold, true outlines.
"This isn't bad," was her sage critcism.
"Didn't you wear a hat, or something?" he asked, looking around and up into the tree.
"No—yes—I wore this," and pulling from her pocket a large blue square of cotton, she tied it under her chin with the utmost naivete.
"It's Aunt Hepsy's," she explained. "There, do you hear that bell? That's for dinner," and taking a tiny watch from an elf-like pocket, she added, "Only half-past eleven. But, to be sure, we ate breakfast with the chickens. It's horrible."
"Don't you live here?"
"Live here?" she echoed. "No, I'm only visiting. Good-bye, I must go. I am much obliged, though," and as if the recollection were overpowering, she again burst out into her ringing laugh.