“New discovery?” said the major. “Star-gazing?”
“I think so,” replied Lucy; “but he is so quiet and reserved, and he does not like to speak until he is sure. If you would not mind coming round our way, I could leave you at the end of the lane.”
“Mind? No,” cried the major; “but are you sure you will not come home with us to lunch?”
“Quite sure, please,” said Lucy.
“Then, we’ll see you right to your door,” said the major, as he shouldered the little easel; “eh, my dear?”
“Oh, yes, of course, uncle,” replied Glynne; and they continued along the side path for about a quarter of a mile, before crossing a fir wood, whose trunks rose up like so many ruddy, grey-bronze columns, while the ground was made slippery by the thick coating of pine needles beneath their feet.
“Oh, here’s one of your favourites, Major Day,” cried Lucy, eagerly, as she ran on and picked a curious grey-looking fungus, with a rough efflorescence on the top. “No, no, don’t tell me: I want to see if I recollect what it is.”
“She doesn’t know, Glynne. Tell her, my dear.”
“I, uncle?” said Glynne, smiling up at him. “You know I never recollect the names.”
“I know you won’t rouse up that brain of yours to take an interest in anything,” said the major in a tone of good-tempered reproof. “It’s a great shame, when you are naturally so clever.”