Suddenly there was a scream from the midst of the flowers, and the young lady on the garden-bench raised her eyes to speak.
"What is it, Caroline?"
She came forth in her beauty, flinging down the flowers she had gathered, and holding out the back of her hand. A deep scratch lay right across it.
"Just look! I am always tearing myself with those wild-rose brambles!"
"Poor hand! Sit still, Carine; it is too hot for anything else today. What do you want with the flowers, that you need trouble yourself to get them?"
"I don't know what I want with them. Nothing. Picking them helped to pass away the time."
"Why are you so restless this afternoon!"
"Am I restless? One can't be always as quiet as you--read, read, read for ever."
An amused smile parted the reader's lips, bringing to view the pretty teeth, so white and regular. "I will retort in nearly your own words, Carine--am I quiet? I think not."
"Yes you are, except when the boys are at home. You are noisy enough then. I shall go and eat some fruit."