"Here, let me!" cried Ishmael; but she waved him back.
"No, you're too heavy; you'd go through at once. Hold my hand while I lean over;" and she swung outwards from his grasp, her other hand stretching vainly.
"Best leave that lot," advised Ishmael; "there's some much easier to get at just along there."
She turned her head, body still swung forward, and followed the line of his pointing finger to where a cluster of grass as fine, but untransmuted, stood in shadow.
"Oh, but that hasn't the sun on it!" she exclaimed naïvely. The next moment she had seen the absurdity of her own speech, and, pivoting to the path beside him, joined in his laughter.
"Well, it seemed sense to me when I said it," she protested.
"So it would have been if you could have picked the sun too."
"But I suppose it was only the sun that made me want them at all.
Aren't I a goose? Vassie would say I shall never get sense."
"I like that sort of nonsense; it's rather jolly, somehow. I say,
Phoebe, I shall think of you as the girl who wanted to pick the sun.
Doesn't it sound ripping?"
"Oh, my feet are so wet!" cried Phoebe. "I must hurry home. Mother will fuss so over me, you can't think."