“I always notice,” replied Sibyl, softly, “that when quite strangers meet, they talk about the weather. I thought that was why. Can’t I say anything more—more as if they were my very dear old friends? I thought they’d like it. I thought they’d like to know that there was one here who understanded all about it.”
“About it?”
“Their love, mother, their love for—for each other.”
“Who may the one be who is supposed to understand?”
“Me, mother,” said Sibyl.
Mrs. Ogilvie burst into a ringing laugh.
“You are a most ridiculous little girl,” she said. “Now, listen; you are not to take any notice when they come back. They are not engaged; perhaps they never will be. Anyhow, you will make yourself an intensely disagreeable child if you make such remarks as you have already made. Do you understand?”
“You has put it plain, mother,” replied Sibyl. “I think I do. Now, let’s look at the flowers.”
“I have ordered the landlord of the inn to serve tea on the lawn,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie. “Is it not nice to feel that we are going to have tea on our own lawn, Sibyl?”
“It’s lovely!” replied Sibyl.