He stopped short, and turned to the warm sheltered nook among the rocks where Aunt Margaret was seated; her grey lavender dress was carefully spread about her, her white hair turned back beneath a black velvet satin-lined hood, and a lace fichu pinned across her breast.
“You here, Miss Vine?”
“Yes; and I thought I would save you a thankless effort. You could not overtake the girls unless you ran.”
“I was not going to try and overtake them, Miss Vine,” said Leslie coldly.
“Indeed! I beg your pardon; I thought you were. But would you mind, Mr Leslie—it is a very trifling request, but I set store by these little relics of our early history—Miss Marguerite Vine, if you would be so kind?”
Leslie bowed. “Certainly, Miss Marguerite,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she said, detaining him. “It is very good of you. Of course you are surprised to see me up here?”
“Oh no,” said Leslie quietly. “It is a delightful place to sit and rest and read.”
“Ye-es; but I cannot say that I care much for the rough walking of this part of the world, and my brother seems somehow to have taken quite a dislike to the idea of having a carriage?”
“Yes?”