“Give it to me; I will read it at home,” Joscelyn said, stretching out her hand with sudden interest. “It would be preposterous to waste all that sentiment on a mere sister; it takes an outsider to appreciate touches like that. Oh, it shall be read with all the accessories of a grand passion—sighs, smiles, blushes, and suchlike incense.” She laughed as she tucked the letter into her belt, but she did not say who the reader would be, and Mary took much comfort in the thought that she would appropriate the sentimental parts to herself. Whose eyes were softer than Joscelyn’s, whose hands whiter or sweeter to hold?
And so, each thinking her own thoughts, they crossed the wooden bridge that spanned the river, the horses’ hoofs making a rhythmic clatter on the boards. In the street beyond they came upon Mistress Strudwick carrying an uncovered basket heaped high with hanks of yarn. The road was a slight ascent, and the corpulent dame was puffing sorely.
“Why, Mistress Strudwick, you with such a load as that? What does this mean?” cried Joscelyn.
“It means that that little darky of mine has run away again, and that there’ll be one less limb on my peach tree to-night when he comes back.”
“Will you not take my horse and ride?”
“It’s been thirty years since I was in a saddle, and I’m not honing to wear a shroud.”
Joscelyn leaned down, and catching the handle, lifted the basket to the pommel of her saddle. “I will not see you make yourself ill in this way. Were there no other servants to spare you this exertion? You are all out of breath.”
A curious light came into the old lady’s eyes as she saw the girl steady the basket in front of her; but she checked the words that had sprung to her lips and trudged slowly along, the riders holding back their horses to keep beside her.
“What have you two been plotting together this afternoon?” she asked, looking from one to the other with the pleasure age often finds in contemplating youth and beauty.
“Have we the appearance of dark conspirators?” laughed Joscelyn.