The farmer's wife, a hearty, friendly woman, insisted that Elizabeth sit down in the shade of the big tree and rest a little.
"I will bring you a drink of water; just wait a minute until I draw some fresh from the well," she said.
She went bustling away, leaving Betsey very glad to sit there quietly and regain her breath. It was a pleasant place, with the grassy slope before the house going down to the river, crossed, just here, by a little bridge. She sat watching the smooth water with its swinging lily pads and the quaint stone arch of the old bridge, thinking what a peaceful and picturesque spot it was.
"It looks almost like one of Aunt Susan's picture post cards," she reflected, "only I don't think Aunt Susan would stop long at any such quiet and out-of-the-way place as this."
There had been a gay-colored shower of bright postals from Aunt Susan lately, ships and hotels and panoramas of tropical scenes where the inhabitants seemed to have nothing to do but sit about on banks of flowers with brilliant green palms as a background. There were also bits of scenes like this one, places of historic association, chosen, Betsey knew, not because her aunt had spent much time viewing such spots, but because that type of post-card gave more space for correspondence. Aunt
