Kathleen was sitting in the swing, and idly pushing a hole in the saw dust, with the toe of her shoe; while Katherine sat on a log hemming a handkerchief, a red rose stuck in her hair, and much thoughtfulness in her face.
"I think it's too horrible to think about," said the former, suddenly, and with a vinegary aspect of countenance.
"He may be nice," returned the latter, consolingly, though with much evident distaste to the fact.
"Who cares, and then besides, I bet he isn't."
"You mustn't bet."
"I will. You may be nice, and proper, and so awfully prim, if you want to, but I sha'n't."
"You're nearly fifteen."
"Suppose I am. Besides I'm not; it's three months yet."
"Well," said Kittie, after a pause, and turning a corner in her handkerchief with great nicety, "I suppose since it's settled, that he will be here in a few days. Bea has fixed his room so pretty."
"Pooh! I bet he'll never notice it, and he'll be an everlasting bother, and we'll never have any more fun; and I'm going to tell him the minute he gets here, that I hate him; and I hope that'll make him happy and want to stay," exclaimed Kat vehemently.