thought of their speeches, and by that means, certainly, check all unbridled gossip.
Twilight had already gathered, and the scent of mown clover and meadow land was wafted over the fields, while birds winged their way to a neighbouring coppice, there to spend the evening and the night according to their wont.
Betuska seemed to be already quite easy in her mind.
Only as it were involuntary she hinted that she was looking forward to next Sunday, and glanced up at uncle’s eyes to see what he thought of it. But Uncle John seemed as if he had not paid much attention: at first he was slightly abstracted, then he smiled and kissed Betuska.
And Betuska was soon as she had been before; she even jested a little,—aye, even hinted that next Sunday she should put on a new dress, which she hoped uncle would like, and think suited her.
After that Uncle John hinted, only as it were involuntarily, that on Sunday he would not be at home.
A pang went to Betuska’s heart, but she made as though it were a laughing matter to her.
“Certainly I cannot guess where you are going,” she said, half jestingly.
“And perhaps I don’t mean to tell you,” said Uncle John, and pressed her hand more warmly than before.
“I will guess in what direction you are going,” and she guessed, pointing with her hand in different directions, until at last she pointed as if by accident in the direction of the place where uncle was to go on Sunday.
“Come, come, I will tell you no more,” said uncle, and kissed her mouth to prevent hearing any further questions.
