The sound of sweeping draperies broke in upon her thoughts. It was Aunt Genevieve, and she had not learned her hymn. Picking up her book, she stole swiftly across the grass till she was hidden by some tall shrubbery. Before her was a high hedge of privet; beyond it, among the trees, the chimneys of a red brick house.
Walking back and forth, Rosalind began to study in earnest. Looking first at her book and then up at the blue sky, she repeated:—
| "'Lo! such the child whose early feet |
| The paths of peace have trod. |
| Whose secret heart with influence sweet |
| Is upward drawn to God.'" |
CHAPTER SECOND.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE.
"Give me leave to speak my mind."
There was another garden on the other side of the hedge; not so large, nor so beautifully kept perhaps, but a pleasant garden, for all that. The red brick house to which it belonged was by no means so stately as the one whose doorstep the griffins guarded, yet it had an importance all its own. On week days, when the heavy shutters on the lower front windows were open, The National Bank of Friendship was to be seen in gilt letters on the glass; on Sundays, however, when they were closed, there was little to suggest that it was anything more than a private dwelling. It was a square, roomy house, and the part not in use for bank purposes was occupied by the cashier, Mr. Milton Roberts, and his family.
While Rosalind, curled up on the garden seat, was thinking of home, Maurice Roberts lay in the hammock under the big maple near the side porch, where his mother and Miss Betty Bishop sat talking. He held a book, but instead of reading was allowing himself the lazy entertainment of listening to their conversation.