“Where are you going?”
“A-maying.”
“But it isn’t May,” said Lily trying to sound merry. Nevertheless, in another minute she was with them, swinging her straw hat on her arm. On down the lane they went, under the light shade of the budding trees, past the old iron fountain.
“Whoa. Where are you off to?” shouted the voice of some invisible being; there was a scrambling, scraping sound in the branches of a tree that, growing inside of the wall around the Sheridan place, extended its patriarchal boughs across the road; and presently the lord of the manor, hot, and red, with a three foot saw in his hand swung gracefully into view.
“Are you going to have a party without me?” he asked in an injured tone. “Can’t I come, too?”
“There!” said Jane in a low tone, giving Paul a surreptitious pinch, “what did I tell you?”
“Are you going to begin meddling with that again?” demanded Paul, also in a low tone, remembering bitterly the unhappy part he had been called upon to play at the Webster’s party. “Because if so, I’m going home.”
“I’ll meddle if I think it’s necessary,” returned Jane, calmly, “but I don’t believe it will be.”
And, indeed, from the first it seemed quite plain that her valuable services were not required. With the air of one who feels that her small tasks have been well done, she watched Lily and Mr. Sheridan who wandered on ahead, leading the way across the old wooden bridge, and up the hill.
Jane said frankly to Paul that she would “sort of like to hear what they were talking about,” but Paul was pained, and undertook to lecture her on the spot for her deplorable habits.