"Hinder me from thinking about anything," said Dolly, laughing a little.
"Seriously, Miss Dolly," said Lawrence, who stood by, hat in hand, ready to go; the Pincian Hill Sunday evening was something he quite approved of;—"seriously, do you think there is anything wrong in sitting up there for an hour or two, and seeing the beautiful sunset colours, and hearing the music?"
"She's a little Puritan," said her father; "and the Puritans were always an obstinate set, Lawrence; always, and in every nation and people. I wonder why the two things should go together."
"What two things, father?"
"What you call Puritanism and obstinacy."
"I suppose because those you call Puritans love the truth," said Dolly; "and so hold to it."
"And do you not think other people, who are not Puritans, also love the truth, Miss Dolly?" Lawrence asked.
"I don't think anybody loves the truth he disobeys," Dolly said with a gentle shake of her head.
"There!" said her mother. "There's Dolly all over. She is right, and nobody else is right. I wonder what she supposes is to become of all the rest of the world! Everybody in Rome will be on the Pincian to-night except Dolly Copley. And every other mother but me will have her daughter with her."
In answer to which Dolly kissed her, pulled the strings of her bonnet into a prettier bow, and looked at her with sweet, shining eyes, which said as plainly as possible without words that Mrs. Copley knew better. The party went off, nevertheless; and Lawrence, lingering till the others had turned their backs, held out his hand to Dolly.