“Yes, Mr. Gray; and we allow no idlers here. Please may I ask what ails our window shades, sir?”
The poor old green-cloth curtains were tearing away from the gentle clasp of Sadie Patten’s tack-nails, and leaning over from the tops of the windows as if already tired of the sun and wanting a little rest.
“No, I’m using it, I’m a young lady now and do as I please,” cried Mary, springing up from the kitchen hearth, and scattering her walnuts broadcast, “catch me if you can.”
“Is that so? Well, then, now for a race from here to the sweet-apple tree. One, two, three, begin!” And Preston started off at the top of his speed, Mary just before him, her face aglow, her hair streaming in the wind. As she skimmed over the ground, shouting and laughing, she seemed for all the world like a little girl, and not in the least like a young lady. She was soon caught and obliged to surrender the hammer, whereupon Preston nailed the curtains neatly, and went whistling about the house, giving finishing touches here and there to the rickety furniture.
“O thank you. You’ve been a great help. Now, in return, you shall have a spring-bed to sleep on, the only one we have in the house,” said Lucy, with a mischievous glance at Sadie.
The spring-bed did not fit the bedstead, and the chances were that it might fall through in the night.
“You’re too tremendously kind, too self-sacrificing,” said Preston, suspecting at once that something was wrong.
But he had his revenge. The bedstead was extremely noisy, and the roguish youth, unable to sleep himself on account of mosquitoes, rejoiced to think that he was probably keeping his cousin Lucy awake.
“Good morning, Preston, I hope you rested well,” said she, as they all met next morning in the front yard.
“O very.—it’s _so_ quiet in the country,” returned he demurely. “Did you ever _hear_ anything so quiet?”
“Never; except possibly a saw-mill,” said Sadie Patten. “Lucy and I wondered if you could be alive, you were so still!”
“It _was_ sort of frightful. No sound broke the awful silence, save the warning voice of the mosquito.—By the way, girls, why don’t you call this spot Mosquito Ranch?”
“I’ll tell you what we used to call it at our house,—we always called it ‘Down to the Farm,’” remarked little Fanny.