the fallow to the turnips, and I walked along the path with the girls as they were going to school.
“He irritates me in everything he does and says,” burst out Emily with much heat.
“He’s a pig sometimes,” said I.
“He is!” she insisted. “He irritates me past bearing, with his grand know-all way, and his heavy smartness—I can’t beat it. And the way mother humbles herself to him——!”
“It makes you wild,” said I.
“Wild!” she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked on in silence, till she asked.
“Have you brought me those verses of yours?”
“No—I’m so sorry—I’ve forgotten them again. As a matter of fact, I’ve sent them away.”
“But you promised me.”
“You know what my promises are. I’m as irresponsible as a puff of wind.”
She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than necessary. When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a sting of her deep reproach in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had gone.
I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom pond. The stepping-stones were white in the sun, and the water slid sleepily among them. One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against the blue sky, trifled from flower to flower and led me up the hill, across the field where the hot sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was entering the caverns of the wood, where the oaks bowed over and saved us a grateful shade. Within, everything was
