"If I were going to be Cinderella at all," Hertha was gently emphatic, "I would be at the ball itself, a beautiful ball in a long, golden room filled with lights and blooming flowers, where every one wore filmy silk dresses and danced to swaying music."
"You and I would dance together, you in soft blue silk, the color of the dress you have on, and I—what should I wear?"
"Pale pink satin," she answered, laughter in her eyes, "and your hair in long curls."
He chuckled. "What fools they must have looked, those Fauntleroy princes. I wonder if they ever did a stroke of work?"
"No, others planted while they picked the blossoms."
"There's a heap of that in this world, isn't there? Do you know," earnestly, "one reason I came home was because I thought I'd like to see a Merryvale digging his own garden."
"You do it very nicely."
"Thank you." He said this seriously, and then, realizing for a moment her station, turned away.
"What's this?" She was running among the trees; he dashed after her and in a moment had her cornered.
"The clock struck twelve."