"Don't walk any more just now," he said "Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you."
Araminta obeyed him unquestioningly. He settled her comfortably in the haircloth easy-chair and drew his own chair closer. There was a pause, then she looked up at him, smiling with childish wistfulness.
"Are you sorry it's well?" he asked.
"I—I think I am," she answered, shyly, the deep crimson dyeing her face.
"I can't see you any more, you know," said Ralph, watching her intently.
The sweet face saddened in an instant and Araminta tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. "Perhaps," she returned, slowly, "Aunt Hitty will be taken sick. Oh, I do hope she will!"
"You miserable little sinner," laughed Ralph, "do you suppose for a moment that Aunt Hitty would send for me if she were ill? Why, I believe she'd die first!"
"Maybe Mr. Thorpe might be taken sick," suggested Araminta, hopefully.
"He's old, and sometimes I think he isn't very strong."
"He'd insist on having my father. You know they're old friends."
"Mr. Thorpe is old and your father is old," corrected Araminta, precisely, "but they haven't been friends long. Aunt Hitty says you must always say what you mean."