"Why do you do so?"
"Oh, it's nothing," said Fleda, cheerfully; "I haven't hurt myself. I shall be rested again in a few minutes."
"What have you been doing?"
"Oh, I tired myself a little before breakfast in the garden, I suppose. Aunt Lucy, don't you think I had almost a bushel of pease? and there was a little over a half bushel last-time, so I shall call it a bushel. Isn't that fine?"
"You didn't pick them all yourself?"
"Hugh helped me a little while; but he had the horse to get ready, and I was out before him this morning poor fellow, he was tired from yesterday, I dare say."
Mrs. Rossitur looked at her, a look between remonstrance and reproach, and cast her eves down without saying a word, swallowing a whole heartful of thoughts and feelings. Fleda stooped forward till her own forehead softly touched Mrs. Rossitur's, as gentle a chiding of despondency as a very sunbeam could have given.
"Now, aunt Lucy! what do you mean? Don't you know it's good for me? And do you know, Mr. Sweet will give me four shillings a bushel? and, aunt Lucy, I sent three dozen heads of lettuce this morning besides. Isn't that doing well? and I sent two dozen day before yesterday. It is time they were gone, for they are running up to seed, this set; I have got another fine set almost ready."
Mrs. Rossitur looked at her again, as if she had been a sort of terrestrial angel.
"And how much will you get for them?"