Cousin Molly Belle threw herself down at full-length on the grass, pillowed her bright head upon her arms, and stared contentedly into the apple boughs.
"This is what I call taking one's comfort!" she breathed.
I sat down by her, my short legs tucked under me, Bedouin-wise. That was one good thing—among many—about being out-of-doors with nobody by but her or the colored children. I could sit cross-legged. If I forgot my manners and did it in the house, my mother, or Mam' Chloe, pulled my legs out straight in front of me, or shook them down, and reminded me that I was going to be a young lady before long. As if that were my fault, or as if it could be helped! My heart glowed with gratification in observing that Cousin Molly Belle had laid one slim ankle over the other. I hitched myself a little nearer to her and lapsed into the confidential tone she encouraged in our tête-à-têtes.
"Don't you just love to cross your—feet?"
My modest hesitation was not lost upon her. She laughed.
"I like to cross my legs—and I do it!"
"Mam' Chloe says people ought to think little ladies haven't any legs,—that their feet are just pinned to the bottom of their pantalettes."
"Mam' Chloe is an—echo!"
"That wasn't what you began to say,—was it?" asked I, diffidently.
She laughed again, tweaking my ear, affectionately, and telling me that I was a "monkey, and too sharp to be safe."