These, with her regular daily exercise in the open air, filled up the morning; there was a half hour before, and another after dinner, which she could call her own; then two hours for needlework, music, and drawing, and she was free to employ herself as she would till bed-time.
That was very apt to be in reading, and if the weather was fine she usually carried her book to an arbor at some distance from the house. It was reached by a long shaded walk that led to it from the lawn, on which the glass doors of her pretty boudoir opened. It was a cool, breezy, quiet spot, on a terraced hillside, commanding a lovely view of vale, river, and woodland, and from being so constantly frequented by our heroine, had come to be called by her name,--"Elsie's Arbor." Arthur, well acquainted with these tastes and habits, sought, and found her here on the afternoon of this day--found her so deeply absorbed in Miss Warner's sweet story that she was not aware of his approach--so full of sympathy for little Ellen that her tears were dropping upon the page as she read.
"What, crying, eh?" he said with a sneer, as he seated himself by her side, and rudely pulled one of her curls, very much as he had been used to do years ago. "Well, I needn't be surprised, for you always were the greatest baby I ever saw."
"Please let my hair alone, Arthur; you are not very polite in either speech or action," she answered, brushing away her tears and moving a little farther from him.
"It's not worth while to waste politeness on you. What's that you're reading?"
"Some namby-pamby girl's story, I s'pose, since you're allowed to read it; or are you doing it on the sly?"
"No, I never do such things, and hope I never shall; papa gave me permission."
"Oh; ah! then I haven't got you in my power: wish I had."
"Because I might turn it to good account. I know you are as afraid as death of Horace."
"No, I am not!" dried Elsie indignantly, rich color rushing all over her fair face and neck; "for I know that he loves me dearly and if I had been disobeying or deceiving him I would far sooner throw myself on his mercy than on yours."
"You would, eh? How mad you are; your face is as red as a beet. A pretty sort of Christian you are, aren't you?"