"Not here--in my own country often enough--but the woods in England do not put on such a gay face, Miss Fleda, when they are going to be stripped of their summer dress--they look sober upon it--the leaves wither and grow brown and the woods have a dull russet colour. Your trees are true Yankees--they 'never say die!'"
"Why, are the Americans more obstinate than the English?" said Fleda.
"It is difficult to compare unknown quantities," said Mr. Carleton laughing and shaking his head. "I see you have good ears for the key-note of patriotism."
Fleda looked a little hard at him, but he did not explain; and indeed they were hurrying along too much for talking, leaping from stone to stone, and running down the smooth orchard slope. When they reached the last fence, but a little way from the house, Fleda made a resolute pause.
"Mr. Carleton--" said she.
Mr. Carleton put down his basket, and looked in some surprise at the hesitating anxious little face that looked up at him.
"Won't you please not say anything to grandpa about my going away?"
"Why not, Fairy?" said he kindly.
"Because I don't think I ought to go."
"But may it not be possible," said he, "that your grandfather can judge better in the matter than you can do?"