"Read aloud to us," said Violet. "Should you not like that, Lina?"
"Very much," she replied, and her dark eyes brightened at the thought.
"Then I will read on from where we interrupted you," said Valchester, looking at Jaquelina. "Which poet was it, Miss Meredith?"
"Longfellow—it was Hiawatha's Wooing," she said, and blushed, though she did not know why, at Violet's laugh.
"And you left off—where?" inquired Valchester, holding the open book toward her.
Jaquelina leaned forward a moment, turned a page with her brown forefinger, and showed him the verse.
She did not know why her breath came quicker for an instant as his white hand touched hers quite accidentally, but Violet Earle saw the swift color rise into her cheek.
It was a beautiful scene. The day was so bright and golden, the grass so green, the clover blossoms and the orchard blooms were so sweet, and the quartette under the apple tree were so young and so happy.
Sorrow had never touched them with her gloomy finger. It was one of those "hours we frame in gold—pictures to be remembered."
Valchester read on in his deep, sweet voice that seemed to blend harmoniously with the warble of the birds and the myriad sweet voices of nature: