“They’re coming in close this time. Harold wants to tell us something. Everyone listen hard.”
The lad, making a trumpet of his hands, was shouting: “We’ll land next tack. Have some lemonade for us, will you?”
The standing girl nodded her head: then, holding out a hand to Lenora, said: “That command shall be obeyed.”
More formally, though in a tone of friendliness, Jenny turned to the other girl: “You will go with us, will you not, Miss Poindexter-Jones? I’ll gather some fresh lemons and——” her face brightened as she added: “Let’s set the rustic table out under the trees near the hammock, and serve some of those little cakes Grandma made this morning, and we might even have strawberries. I gathered many more than we’ll need for the shortcake for dinner.”
“Oh! That will be jolly fun!” Jenny’s enthusiasm was contagious as far as Lenora was concerned, and so all three girls walked toward the house, two of them eagerly, but one reluctantly. Why didn’t she have the courage to say that she must go to her own home? What excuse could she give that would be the truth, for, strangely enough, Gwynette scorned falsehood. She had been angry with herself ever since she had made the excuse of the dress, knowing that it had not been true. Though they did not know it, that high sense of honesty these two girls had inherited from their missionary father.
While she was struggling with her desire to be one of the party when Charles should have landed, and her disinclination at being with girls far beneath her socially, Jenny, who was a little in the lead, turned and smilingly addressed her:
“Miss Poindexter-Jones, what would you prefer doing—hulling strawberries, making the lemonade or setting the table under the trees?”
Lenora, who was bringing up the rear of the little procession, smiled to herself. Jenny surely was daring, for, as they both well knew, Gwynette would not prefer to do anything at all. Surely she would now find some excuse for hasty retreat. She might go home and read to her mother if she had awakened. This Gwyn decided to tell them, but when she did hear her own voice it was saying: “If I may choose, I prefer to set the table.”
“Good!” Jenny turned to Lenora: “Dearie, shall you mind staining your fingers rosy red?”
“Strawberry red, you mean, don’t you?” Lenora dropped down on the top step of the front porch, adding with an upward smile: “Sister Jenny, bring the fruit and I will hull with pleasure.”