The moment her mother left the room, Flora stopped her machine, laid her head down on her arms, and cried, not mildly, like Mrs. Fairchild, but passionately and with a kind of fierceness. Flora had a great deal of force about her, and it came out in all she said and did.
"Don't, Flossy," said Eben, in a hoarse and altered tone; "I can't bear it! You must help to cheer me up."
"Well, I won't," said Flora, raising her head and wiping her eyes, "but oh, Eben, how can she go on so?" and in spite of herself, as it seemed, her head went down again.
"Ma isn't herself lately," said Eben. "I never saw anybody so changed. Sometimes I think she would be better if she had more to do. But never mind, Flossy. We must just think how good she is, and not mind her little ways. Come, Flossy, don't sew any more now. Come down to the bottom of the garden with me, and let us have a nice quiet talk while ma is busy with Mrs. Brown. You will break more needles than your work is worth if you go on sewing as you feel now."
"I believe you are right," said Flora, "and yet I ought not to lose any time."
"Resting is not losing time," persisted her brother, "and if you lame your back at the first start, you won't be able to do any more. Don't you know the lady in the sewing machine store cautioned you against that very thing?—against working too steadily just at first? I know you will sew all the better for resting a little while."
Flora suffered herself to be persuaded. She covered her machine, laid aside her work, and followed Eben down the path to the end of the garden, where he had found time to make a pretty seat. The garden of Mrs. Fairchild's new home extended down to the bank of the little river which ran through the village of Boonville. It was a pretty, rippling, prattling stream, turning mill wheels all along its course, but never seeming to have its nature troubled or its spirit affected by its work. A large willow hung over the water, and under this, Eben had placed his seat, though Mrs. Fairchild declared that she should never dare to sit there, because she remembered just such a tree at her grandfather's which always had red-headed caterpillars in it in July, and she should always think they were crawling over her.
Undeterred in June by the visions of the red-headed caterpillars of past Julys, Eben laid an old shawl on the seat for his sister's accommodation, and placing himself at her feet on a convenient stone, he sat some few minutes in silence, apparently watching the minnows in the water.
"Well?" said he, at last, seeing that Flora did not speak.
"Well?" said Flora, rousing herself from what seemed a reverie. "Have you quite made up your mind, Eben?"