By Marjorie Daw.
“Spin, spin, Clotho, spin,” hummed a gay, masculine voice. “Methinks, fair Mistress Dorris, even the Fates themselves could not be more devoted to their task than are you to that busy little wheel.”
Pretty Dorris Gordon glanced up from her seat by the long window opening into the cool, grassy orchard, where the sun played hide-and-seek with the shadows and then came back to rest caressingly on her bent head crowned with its own sunshine of chestnut hair, but she stayed neither busy hand nor foot as she answered,—
“Since your mighty mind is bent on mythological comparisons, Capt. L’Estrange, ’tis but a poor compliment to a fair lady when a gallant officer compares her to three old Fates,—unless he qualifies the remark somewhat. Could you not add something about my fairy fingers weaving the destiny of man? I fear your quick French wits have been dulled by that cold British bullet in your arm.”
“Nay, ’tis not the British bullet, but yourself, ma belle cousine, that bewilders my French wits and inspires me instead with American patriotism,” is the quick retort.
“Far better than your last speech,” laughs Dorris, taking from her belt a deep-red rose fastened by a true-love knot of blue ribbon to a snowy white bud. “So much better that I will bestow on you my colors. See! the red, white, and blue! Wilt wear them like a brave and gallant knight?”
“They shall be like Henri of Navarre’s plume: ever foremost in the struggle for right,” the young officer answered, bending to kiss the little hand which held the proffered treasure. “I well know no empty compliment will please you as that promise, and indeed its sincerity will soon be tested, for my arm is so much better that I am ready for action, and next week I am off.”
“So soon?” cried Dorris. “Oh, that I were a man, to fight for the stars and stripes!”
“I am always sure to find the words here set to the tune of Yankee Doodle,” breaks in a new voice with a light laugh. “Still, you deserve a laurel wreath for that enthusiastic wish. Will a humble offering of roses be unworthy of notice, fair Goddess of Liberty?” and a shower of sweet-scented blossoms fell over Dorris’ head and shoulders.
“O Mr. Endicott! goddesses are not crowned so unceremoniously. Imagine Paris pelting Venus with that apple that made so much trouble,” says Dorris, glancing up half angrily, half mirthfully, at the tall intruder leaning so easily against the window. “I am almost minded to make you hold this skein of yarn, as a penance, while I wind it.”