“Anne, won’t you come with us?”
“No; I am not good for all day. I shall go and have a talk with Mrs. Maybrook this afternoon. If I lie down until then, I may manage it. Margaret says it sweetens one for a week to see that woman. I mean to try the recipe.”
“I am getting very curious about her,” said Rose; “and there is so much to do, and I must catch a salmon to-morrow.”
“We kill salmon,” said Lyndsay.
“But you catch them with a pole and a line.”
“No; they catch themselves; and we call it a rod, miss, please.”
“Yes, Marcus Aurelius.”
“At ten o’clock, sauce-box; and get your wits in order.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” and she touched her forehead and went to secure their lunch.
Anne took a book, as usual, and went out to lie under the porch in a hammock. The boats got away, and still she lay quiet. Delicate of features, the mouth and large gray eyes her only beauties; her nose fine, but large for the rest of her face, and aquiline; her forehead square, with a mass of brown hair set too high above its pallor for good looks, perhaps justified the common notion that Anne Lyndsay never had been even pretty. Years of pain and endurance had lessened, not increased, her natural irritability, and given to her face an expression of singular force. It may be added that she was a trifle vain of the small hands and feet which she, like all of her people, possessed.