“Yes,” she laughed; “though it’s rather saucy for you to say it. My real name is Cecilia.”
“Excuse me, Miss Cecilia.”
“O, dear me! Don’t call me that, or I shall think you are speaking to somebody else. ‘Puss’ I’ve always been, and ‘Puss’ I must be, I suppose!” And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another ripple of laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.
“Yes,” she went on, more soberly, “I’ve heard how your sister was ill, and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I come and see her? She’s just about my age, grandpa says.”
“Do! It will do her good, I’m sure,” replied Winthrop warmly, glancing at his companion’s pretty face and sunny curls.
Puss blushed a little, and suddenly became very demure. “Here’s grandpa’s, where I live,” she said, pausing before an old, gambrel-roofed house. “Won’t you come in?”
All the houses in Taconic were pleasant inside and out. This one looked particularly so.
“Thank you; just for a minute,” said Winthrop, walking up with Puss between two rows of lilac bushes. The girl led him into a cool, old-fashioned parlor, which had shells on the mantel-piece, and great, irregular beams in the ceiling.
Mr. Rowan, a silvery-haired gentleman, with much stately dignity and kindly manner, soon entered, and talked pleasantly with the boy, of his uncle’s younger days and Winthrop’s own affairs. Altogether a half-hour passed very quickly, and Winthrop was sorry to feel obliged to take his leave.