If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen for her that week.
“To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure, aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.”
“Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good deed—so say I.”
Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh, the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby leaves within—it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.
As she stood by the hedge on one occasion after having tastefully disposed the contents of a basket on its prickly surface, she was hailed by a voice from the road.
“Be this Widow Melmouth’s?”
The girl peered over the hedge at the speaker, her curly hair flapping in the breeze, her cheeks pinker than ever, partly from her recent exertions, partly from excitement. There stood a stalwart young countryman in corduroys and leggings, a bundle in one hand, a stout stick in the other. He had a brown, good-humoured face, with twinkling blue eyes, and a smile that displayed the most faultless teeth in the world.
“This be Widow Melmouth’s, bain’t it?” he repeated, altering the form of his question.
“It be,” returned Rosy; then she nodded towards the house. “My aunt’s inside,” said she.
Both, from opposite sides of the hedge, directed their steps towards the gate.