“Am I to take my rifle, Rose?”
“Yes,—I think he said so.”
“His trust in this family must be large,” said Lyndsay.
“Do you think I ought to go?” said this young hypocrite.
“Yes, but don’t shoot him!”
And now Rose was dreadfully aware of her aunt’s inspection, and made haste to add, with embarrassment more felt than seen, “What a budget! Oh, I quite forgot, Aunt Anne, I took your roses into my room. Dorothy gave them to me for you.” As she spoke she left the table, and, returning, put the flowers by her aunt. “I was to tell you there were only half a dozen,” and here she made a full, though brief, stop; “but that it was all she had. She seemed to think it hardly worth while sending so few. You know how nice she is; but, dear me, I have made a speech of congressional length,—and I am so hungry!”
In fact she had talked at the last with accelerated speed, having made, as she well knew, a sad blunder into undesirable arithmetical verities.
And now Lyndsay said, “It was very kind of Carington. You must be quite exhausted by the carrying of so many messages!”
“It isn’t all,” said Rose; “Mrs. Maybrook wishes to borrow the book, Pardy, in which is the history of Mrs. Macbeth.”
“Indeed!” he returned; “that is droll,” and fell to thinking.