"Shooting," Miss Darrell said, promptly.
"Shooting in March. Good Heavens, no!"
"Fishing then."
"Fishing is a delightful recreation in a rippling brook, on a hot August day, but in this month and in this weather! For a Massachusetts young lady, Dithy, I must say your guessing education has been shamefully neglected. No, I have come for something better than either fishing or shooting—I have come for you."
"Charley!"
"I've got her note somewhere," said Charley, feeling in his pockets as they walked along, "if it hasn't melted away in the rain. No, here it is. Did Trix, by any chance, allude to a projected tour of the governor's and the maternal's to Europe?"
"Yes." Her eyes were fixed eagerly on his face, her lips apart, and breathless. "Oh, Charley! what do you mean?"
In the intensity of her emotions she forgets to be formal, and becomes natural and cousinly once more.
"Ah! I am Charley again. Here is the note. As it is your healthful and refreshing custom to read your letters in the rain, I need hardly urge you to open and peruse this one."
Hardly! She tore it open, and ran over it with kindling cheeks and fast throbbing heart.