'You are the dearest and sweetest Polly in the world,' he returned, with a low, satisfied laugh; 'the most delightful combination of quaintness and simplicity. I wonder what wise Aunt Milly would say if she heard you.'
'That reminds me that she will be expecting us,' returned Polly, springing off the stile without waiting for his hand. She had shaken off her serious mood, and chatted gaily as they hurried along the upper woodland path; her hands were full of roses and great clusters of campanula by the time they reached Mildred, who was sitting on a little knoll that overlooked the Scar. In winter-time the beck rushed noisily down the high rocky face of the cliff, but now the long drought had dried up its sources, and with the exception of a few still pools the riverbed was dry.
Mildred sat with her elbow on her knee, looking dreamily at the gray scarped rock and overhanging vegetation; while Olive and Chriss scrambled over the slippery boulders in search of ferns. Behind the dark woods the sunset clouds were flaming with breadths of crimson and yellow glory. Over the barren rocks a tiny crescent moon was rising; Mildred's eyes were riveted on it.
'We have found some butterwort and kingcups; Dr. Heriot declares it is the same that Shakespeare calls "Winking Mary-buds." You must add it to your wild-flower collection, Aunt Milly.'
'Are you tired of waiting for us, Miss Lambert? Polly has been giving me some trouble, and I have had to lecture her.'
'Not very severely, I expect,' returned Mildred. She looked anxiously from one to another, but Polly's gaiety reassured her as she flung a handful of flowers into her lap, and then proceeded to sort and arrange them.
'You might give us Perdita's pretty speech, Polly,' said Dr. Heriot, who leant against a young thorn watching her.
Polly gave a mischievous little laugh. She remembered the quotation; Roy had so often repeated it. He would spout pages of Shakespeare as they walked through the wintry woods. 'You have brought it upon yourself,' she cried, holding up to him a long festoon of gaudy weeds, and repeating the lines in her fresh young voice.
'Here's flowers for you!
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and I think they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.'
'Oh, Polly—Polly—fie!'