It was the very next morning that several ladies and gentlemen were gathered on the piazza of the hotel at Montepoole, to brace minds or appetites with the sweet mountain air while waiting for breakfast. As they stood there a young countryman came by bearing on his hip a large basket of fruit and vegetables.
"O look at those lovely strawberries!" exclaimed Constance Evelyn running down the steps.--"Stop if you please--where are you going with these?"
"Marm!" responded the somewhat startled carrier.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"I ain't going to do nothin' with 'em."
"Whose are they? Are they for sale?"
"Well, 'twon't deu no harm, as I know," said the young man making a virtue of necessity, for the fingers of Constance were already hovering over the dainty little leaf-strewn baskets and her eyes complacently searching for the most promising;--"I ha'n't got nothin' to deu with 'em."
"Constance!" said Mrs. Evelyn from the piazza,--"don't take that! I dare say they are for Mr. Sweet."
"Well, mamma!--" said Constance with great equanimity,--"Mr. Sweet gets them for me, and I only save him the trouble of spoiling them. My taste leads me to prefer the simplicity of primitive arrangements this morning."
"Young man!" called out the landlady's reproving voice, "won't you never recollect to bring that basket round the back way?"