In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting in that
sunny place, handling flowers, asking questions about them, and
getting the sort of answers she liked; not dry botanical names and
facts, but all the delicate traits, curious habits, and poetical
romances of the sweet things, as if the speaker knew and loved them
as friends, not merely valued them as merchandise.
They had just finished when the great dog came bouncing in with a
basket in his mouth.
"Mother wants eggs: will you come to the barn and get them? Hay is
wholesome, and you can feed the doves if you like," said David,
leading the way with Bran rioting about him.
"Why don't he offer to put up a swing for me, or get me a doll? It's
the pinafore that deceives him. Never mind: I rather like it after
all," thought Christie; but she left the apron behind her, and
followed with the most dignified air.
It did not last long, however, for the sights and sounds that
greeted her, carried her back to the days of egg-hunting in Uncle
Enos's big barn; and, before she knew it, she was rustling through
the hay mows, talking to the cow and receiving the attentions of
Bran with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceal.
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