'Little Heartsease, do you know what you deserve?' but Dr. Heriot evidently enjoyed the mischief. 'After all, I brought it on myself. I believe I was thinking of the crazy Danish maid, Ophelia, all the time.'
'You have had your turn,' answered Polly, with her prettiest pout; 'my next shall be for Aunt Milly. I am afraid I don't look much like Ophelia, though. There, Aunt Milly—there's rosemary, that's for remembrance—pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.'
'Make them as gay as your own, Heartsease;' then—
'Hush, don't interrupt me; I am making Aunt Milly shiver. "There's fennel for you and columbines; there's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. You may wear your rue with a difference."'
'You are offering me a sorry garland;' and Mildred forced a smile over the girl's quaint conceit. 'Mints, savory, marjoram, all the homeliest herbs you could find in your garden. I shall not forget the compliment to my middle age,' grumbled Dr. Heriot, who was unusually tickled at the goodness of the repartee Polly was never so thoroughly at her ease as when she was under Aunt Milly's wing. Just then Mildred rose to recall Olive and Chriss; as she went down the woody hillock a quick contraction of pain furrowed her brow.
'There's rue for you,' she said to herself; 'ah, and rosemary, that's for remembrance. Oh, Polly, I felt tempted to use old Polonius's words, and say, "there's a method in madness"; how little you know the true word spoken in jest; never mind, if I can only take it as "my herb of grace o' Sundays," it will be well yet.'
Mildred found herself monopolised by Chriss during their homeward walk. Polly and Dr. Heriot were in front, and Olive, as was often her custom, lingering far behind.
'Let them go on, Aunt Milly,' whispered Chriss; 'lovers are dreadfully poor company to every one but themselves. Polly will be no good at all now she is engaged.'
'What do you know about lovers, a little girl like you?' returned Mildred, amused in spite of herself.
'I am not a little girl, I am nearly sixteen,' replied Chriss, indignantly. 'Romeo and Juliet were all very well, and so were Ferdinand and Miranda, but in real life it is so stupid. I have made up my mind that I shall never marry.'