“But may I not come with you? Cannot I help you?”
“No, thank you; indeed I could not possibly have you. It is very good of you to offer, but I cannot have you, and I must not tell you why.”
“You do look so sad! Are you sure you cannot join the charades to-night?”
“Sure—certain,” said Sylvia, with a little gasp. “And I am not sad,” she added; “there never was any one more merry. Listen to me now; I am going to laugh the echoes up.”
They were standing where a defile of rocks stretched away to their left. The stream ran straight between the narrow opening. The girl slightly changed her position, raised her hand, and called out a clear “Hullo!” It was echoed back from many points, growing fainter and fainter as it died away.
“And now you say I am not merry!” she exclaimed. “Listen.”
She laughed a ringing laugh. There never was anything more musical than the way that laughter was taken up, as if there were a thousand sprites laughing too. Sylvia turned her white face and looked full at Arthur.
“Oh, I am such a merry girl!” she said, “and such a glad one! and such a thankful one! And I am rich—not poor—but I like simple things. Good-by, Arthur, for the present.”
“I will come and see you again. You are quite wonderful!” he said. “I wish mother knew you. And I wish my sister Moss were here; I wish she knew you.”
“Moss! What a curious name!” said Sylvia.