"Clover, Clover darling," called a weak voice from an open window, "you’ve been out there so long! Aren’t you almost through? You will get a sunstroke. Do, at least, put on a hat."
The girl brushed her flying hair back with one hand. "I’m all right, mother," she called, her cheery tones contrasting pleasantly with the sad voice.
"She is doing too much. I know she is," murmured the feeble watcher within, keeping her yearning gaze on the lithe young figure. "Bless her brave heart!" The dim eyes filled.
The front door slamming broke in upon the mother’s meditations, and another girl entered the shabby room where she sat. She was a tall, broad-shouldered young creature of seventeen, the face under her heavy, half-falling brown hair flushed with heat, health, and happiness. She seemed to fill the room as she skipped up to the white-haired figure and pressed the infantile curve of her peachy cheek against the pale face.
"Oh, I wish for the thousandth time that we could live nearer the lake," she said in hearty young tones. "Every block one comes inland, one feels the difference in heat. Where is Clover?"
"In the back yard, hanging out clothes," was the anxious response. "I’m afraid for her, Mildred. I wish you would take her a shade hat."
"Hanging out clothes!" repeated Mildred, amazed. "What in the world"—She did not wait to finish her sentence, but hastening into the hall seized a broad-rimmed hat hanging there and hurried to the back of the house. Running down the steps, the dancing light quite gone from her clear eyes, she approached her sister.
"What does this mean, Clover?" she exclaimed accusingly.
The elder, already highly colored, now looked uneasy. "You know Mrs. O’Rourke couldn’t come to-day to do the washing," she answered.
"No, but she can come Wednesday," retorted the younger, placing the hat upon the sunny roughened hair of the head which was decidedly below her own in height.
"Don’t stick the hat-pin into me," cried Clover, smiling up into the displeased eyes.
"I don’t know but I will. Just look at your fingers, all white and parboiled!"
Clover clasped the offending hands behind her.
"What did you do it for?" asked the young girl severely. "Here I’ve been having the most elegant jouncy sail,—it is deliciously rough,—sitting at my ease on a cushion, while you’ve been working like this. It isn’t a bit fair."