“Why, foolish little woman, it isn’t the season; they would not grow.”
“Yes, they would though—you say that just because you don’t like; you story!”
“Violet!” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, tapping the table with the seal end of her silver pencil-case.
“Well, but he is, grannie, very disobliging. You do nothing now but read your tiresome old books, and never do anything I bid you.”
“Really! Well, that’s very bad; I really must do better,” said William, getting up with a smile; “I will sow the lupins.”
“What folly!” murmured Aunt Dinah, grimly.
“We’ll get the hoe and trowel. But what’s to be done? I forgot I’m to play for the town to-day; and I don’t think I have time—no, certainly—no time to-day for the lupins;” and William shook his head, smiling disconsolately.
“Then I’ll never ask you to do anything for me again as long as I live—never—never—never!” she vowed with a tiny stamp.
“Yes you shall—you shall, indeed, and I’ll do ever so much; and may she come and look at the cricket?”
So, leave granted, she did, under old Winnie’s care; and when she returned, and for days after, she boasted of Willie’s long score, and how he caught the ball.