It was July and a hot, clear day. The notice was in the village paper for all the women that could help, to come to a first meeting and take hours for duty there, and routes to collect, and offer wagons if they had them, and give fruit for jelly, and Miss Lisbet led off with the old pony and cart for steady work.
We were resting in the garden and she had just told me that she meant to give all her time to the "office," as we called it in a joking way (for nice young ladies didn't go to offices then, I promise you! Madam thought little enough of it) and she put her hand on mine.
"Rhoda," says she, "my dream is coming true—do you see? I'm to do something for my country, after all! Just as a man would—just as Dick does, Rhoda! Isn't it a grand thing?"
"Yes, miss," says I.
"The change is coming now, Rhoda," she says, and then, laughing at herself, "I'm going to ask the larkspurs!"
And she pulled a great stalk and held it over her head, as I had taught her seven years before.
"Larkspur, larkspur, tell me true,
Or never again I'll trust to you!
Is there to be a great change in my life?"
And she stripped them off, yes, no, yes, no—and they said no! The sweet face fell, and I hurried to comfort her.
"Maybe they always say no hereabouts," says I. "Let me have a try!" And I asked the same question, but it came yes, and that I knew must be true, though she did not.