"Where is your mother?" looking at her askance and still stooping.
"Indoors—at least—I think—no——"
"Haven't you got no sewing? Can't you help her? What good be you on?"
"But this is such a lovely daffodil, and the very first—now do come!"
"Flowers bean't no use on; such trumpery as that; what do'ee want a-messing about arter thaay? You'll never be no good on; you ain't never got a apron on."
"But—just a minute now."
"Go on in, and be some use on."
Amaryllis' lip fell; she turned and walked slowly away along the path, her head drooping forward.
Did ever anyone have a beautiful idea or feeling without being repulsed?
She had not reached the end of the path, however, when the father began to change his attitude; he stood up, dropped his "dibbler," scraped his foot on his spade, and, grumbling to himself, went after her. She did not see or hear him till he overtook her.