“Oh, she don’t care, do you, Motherkin? ’ness we break our necks.”
“I do not intend to break mine. I haven’t done with it yet,” returned Miss Brook gayly, and left the house with her crisp, clean step, that somehow made Beatrice think of everything pure and sweet.
“Isn’t she lovely, Mother? Here, let me get your bonnet and you go with them. It will be safer, on Bob’s account, and you are to begin this very morning to take the doctor’s prescription, ‘Live out of doors all that you can.’ Here is a hat, dear,—no matter if it is mine; and I declare you are almost as pretty as—Miss Joanna.”
“You sauce-box! You deserve that I should not kiss you! But I will. How delightful the air is! How good it is to be here!” Mrs. Beckwith’s careworn face lighted with glad thanksgiving, and with a wave of her hand to her daughters on the wide porch she stepped briskly down the path her guest had followed.
But she had not gone more than a dozen yards when her feet were arrested by Robert’s shrill cry; a cry of such distress and fear that her heart stood still in dread. Then, mindless of physician’s orders, she bounded forward frantically. “The river—I’m sure he’s drowned!”
CHAPTER XII.
BITS OF NATURAL HISTORY.
“ROBERT! where are you?”
“H-he-re, Moth-er!”
“Here” proved to be upon the sloping roof of the little poultry-house, where the child looked safe and rather ridiculous in his fright; and relieved of one anxiety, Mrs. Beckwith passed through the building toward the yard beyond in pursuit of Miss Brook.
“Why, what is the matter?”