THE SUMMER'S END
One afternoon in late September, Martine sat under the trees in her mother's corner of the Red Knoll garden. A number of letters lay before her on a little round table, and beside her, swinging lazily in a hammock, was Priscilla, the practical, who had often been heard to say that she despised hammocks.
After a moment Priscilla, bringing herself to a full stop, leaned forward and gazed intently at Martine.
"I cannot see," she said at length, "that you look so very thin."
"Why should I be very thin?"
"Well, from what I heard I thought you must be. They said you weren't eating, and you are thinner than you were in the spring. I am sure your eyes look larger."
"Probably my eyes have grown; I am sure my waistbands have."
There was a twinkle in Martine's brown eyes, as she pushed back a wavy lock of hair.
"You are just a little paler, too," persisted Priscilla, "but except for that, no one would believe that you had been so ill."
"I don't believe it myself," replied Martine, "though I am perfectly willing to take the word of those who say they know. To tell you the truth, I am rather ashamed to hear that I barely escaped nervous prostration, just because I tried to stop a horse from running away."