“I don’t practise at all,” answered Hope.
The sleepy lids of Adelaide’s eyes were elevated in wonder.
“Then what in all the world do you do?” exclaimed Victoria. “I should like to be you, Hope—I should like to play all day; but Adelaide thinks she is too old to play.”
“I don’t play all day,” said Hope, with some indignation. “Yesterday I was at Friarsford with my mother, and at Mossgray—”
“Oh, Hope!” said Adelaide, “what makes you go to see that girl? she is only a farmer’s daughter.”
“I don’t care for her now,” said Hope, with some sadness; “but it’s not because she’s a farmer’s daughter—it’s because she is—I mean it’s because she practises, and knits and works covers, and doesn’t care for anybody—but never mind that. And then we went to Mossgray. We did not see Mr Graeme; but there’s a beautiful pony—the prettiest one ever you saw—and Mrs Mense says I am to give it its name. What should I call it, Adelaide? come and help me.”
Adelaide slowly shook her head—this was a stretch of invention quite beyond her.
“Call it Mischief,” suggested Victoria.
“Mischief,” deliberated Hope. “No, I don’t like that—I want a pretty name—give me a pretty name, Adelaide.”
An idea gradually illuminated Adelaide’s stolid countenance.