"Dark is her hair, her hand is white,
Her voice is exquisitely tender;
Her eyes are full of a liquid light,
I never saw a waist so slender."
—Praed.
"Dolores, will he ever come?"
The hammock, slung between the two sturdy old apple trees, swings gently to and fro, the scorching rays of an August sun beat fiercely down, the bees hum lazily in the dense heat, the flowers droop their pretty heads, as if inviting a refreshing shower to brighten their fainting spirits.
"Dolores, I believe you are asleep. Do you think he will soon be here?"
"Who?" comes the lazy enquiry from the young lady of the hammock.
"Why, the postman, of course. How stupid of you not to remember. I never saw any one so indifferent in my life."
Zoe's red lips form themselves into as near a pout as her ever ready smiling mouth will allow.
"Who could be anything else than indifferent on a day such as this?" is the half sleepy reply.