"Except in stories Indian girls are called squaws," remarked
practical Dan, tying his mayflowers together in one huge, solid,
cabbage-like bunch. Not for Dan the bother of filling his basket
with the loose sprays, mingled with feathery elephant's-ears and
trails of creeping spruce, as the rest of us, following the Story
Girl's example, did. Nor would he admit that ours looked any
better than his.
"I like things of one kind together. I don't like them mixed," he
said.
"You have no taste," said Felicity.
"Except in my mouth, best beloved," responded Dan.
"You do think you are so smart," retorted Felicity, flushing with
anger.
"Don't quarrel this lovely day," implored Cecily.
"Nobody's quarrelling, Sis. I ain't a bit mad. It's Felicity.
What on earth is that at the bottom of your basket, Cecily?"
"It's a History of the Reformation in France," confessed poor
Cecily, "by a man named D-a-u-b-i-g-n-y. I can't pronounce it. I
heard Mr. Marwood saying it was a book everyone ought to read, so
I began it last Sunday. I brought it along today to read when I
got tired picking flowers. I'd ever so much rather have brought
Ester Reid. There's so much in the history I can't understand,
and it is so dreadful to read of people being burned to death.
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