The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, Miss Grey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge of mirth was wanting.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and—and—Lucy, and who will ride her—"
"You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy."
"I suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tears she had been sternly taught to suppress.
"Isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? I was just going to speak of Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim often talks to me and to Mr. Rivers about the election, but if I say a word or ask a question at table, Aunt Ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'"
"But once, John, I heard Mr. Rivers say that slavery was a curse and wicked. Uncle Jim, he said Aunt Ann's people held slaves, and he didn't want to talk about it. I couldn't hear the rest. I told you once about this."
"How you hear things, Leila. Prince Fine Ear was a trifle to you."
"Who was Prince Fine Ear?" she asked.
"Oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the roses talk. It's a pretty French fairy tale."