Early in April the banks and the edges of the woods were, alive with flowers, glossy-leaved celandines showed their golden stars, brightly-varnished arums peered up with their purple-spotted spathes and leaves, the early purple orchids brightened the dark-green here and there. Clusters of soft pale lilac cuckoo-flowers were springing up amongst the clumps of catkin-laden hazels, oak saplings with bark like oxidised silver, and osiers with orange stems and polished silver buds, while every bank and coppice was sprinkled with sulphur yellow where the primroses bloomed. There was mating and marrying going on in feather-land to the blackbird’s fluting, and the twittering of many throats, and one soft, warm day, when the east wind had been driven back by a balmy breathing from the west and south, Cynthia made a dash at her sister, and laughingly passed the string of her hat over her head, thrust a basket in her hand, and led her off to gather violets.
“Let’s be little children once again, Julie,” she cried. “I want a rest. It has been nothing but spooning, and nonsense lately with Cyril and the pretty schoolmistress.”
“Papa has been in sad trouble about it lately, Cynthy,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“Yes, but let’s hope it is all over now; I think it is.”
“I don’t know,” said Julia, thoughtfully.
“I think I do,” cried Cynthia. “Papa frightened him. But how wonderfully quiet our dear brother Frank is. I hope he is not hatching some mischief.”
“Don’t be uncharitable, Cynthia,” said Julia, with a sad smile; “think the best of your brothers.”
“I do try to, Julie, but I’m afraid I’m not very fond of my brothers.”
“Cynthia!”
“Well, I’m not, dear. I feel quite ashamed of them sometimes. It’s quite shocking the way they are imposing upon Harry, and he takes it all so good-naturedly for my sake, but he don’t like it I’m sure.”