"It's never a word I've heard of what ye are saying!" he exclaimed
contritely. "My mind was on your eyes, and the brown of them. Do they
keep changing color like that all the time?"
Ruth, thus earnestly appealed to, blushed furiously.
"I was talking about the river," she said quickly. "It's jolly under
here, isn't it? So cool and green! I was awfully cross when I
came."
"You cross?"
She nodded her head. "And ungrateful, and perverse, and queer, and
totally unlike my father's family." She counted off her shortcomings
on her fingers, and raised her brows in comical imitation of her aunt.
"A left-hand blessing on the one that said so!" cried Sandy, with such
ardor that she fled to another subject.
"I saw Martha Meech yesterday. She was talking about you. She was very
weak, and could speak only in a whisper, but she seemed happy."
"It's like her soul was in Heaven already," said Sandy.
"I took her a little picture," went on Ruth; "she loves them so. It
was a copy of one of Turner's."
"Turner?" repeated Sandy. "Joseph Mallord William Turner, born in
London, 1775. Member of the Royal Academy. Died in 1851."
She looked so amazed at this burst of information that he laughed.
"It's out of the catalogue.
Pages:
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138