Meg, of Valencia Part 3

"A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles."

"Come out for a boat-ride," Robert called to Meg, who was hemming kitchen towels on her rose-embowered porch. She had seen him between the leaves, as he came striding up the walk, but gave a very natural start of surprise when he spoke. "I'm not deaf," was her rejoinder, as she kept on with her sewing.

"Neither am I dumb," retorted Robert, turning around and starting down the path.

Meg flung the towel from her, scattered thread, thimble and scissors in every direction as she flew down the steps and overtook him. "What was your first remark?" she asked demurely.

He looked down at her, and tried to preserve his dignity, but the eyes which met his were so innocent and wide opened, the little white face so alluring, that his anger melted, and he said, "I asked you to go boating."

"Oh, you yelled so that I didn't distinguish what you said. Yes, oh, yes," catching his arm as he started away again, "certainly I will go with you. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

His eyes smiled into hers as he said gently, "Well, get your hat. I'll wait here for you."

She was gone only a moment, and rejoined him with her big hat thrown back somewhat rakishly on her head. "Aunt Amelia is cross. She wanted me to wash her hair for her, but I told her I was no lady's maid."

Her eyes sought his face and found no response to her frivolity.

"Perhaps you think I should have stayed at home to wash her hair," she suggested anxiously.

Then, as he still did not answer, she stopped and said in an offended tone, "Oh, well, if _that's_ the way you feel about it, I'll go back and do it."

Robert turned and said to her gravely, "It is not for me to say whether you shall or shall not wash your aunt's hair, but if you must have the truth, I think your manner of refusing a trifle rude."

She flushed, and the quick tears came to her eyes, but she kept a brave appearance as she said, "Perhaps I was rude, but if you had to live with Aunt Amelia and wait on her like a slave, as I do, you might forget your manners, too, sometimes."

He turned and looked at her as he said, "I don't want to quarrel with you to-day, little girl. You may be as rude as you please to your aunt, only be good to me."

Her eyes flashed up with sudden joy, and she looked quickly at him, but the calm, impersonal glance she met, quelled the thought she had entertained for that brief second.

Then she said contritely: "I _do_ owe every thing to Aunt Amelia, for I couldn't live on my pittance anywhere else,-but I do, truly I do, earn my board. However, if you say so, I'll go right back now and apologize to her."

"Oh, don't do that," he hastily interposed; "the apology will keep, and the daylight won't."

When they reached the river, he helped her into the boat, and taking off his coat, folded it for her to sit on.

Neither was talkative at first, both preferring their thoughts to idle conversation. Meg watched him warily, taking in the splendid muscular development of his arms and chest, the straight, clean-cut features in a face that in repose was somewhat grave and stern, but infinitely tender and charming when he smiled. She was wis.h.i.+ng, as she gazed at him, that Fate had given her a brother like him.

As for Robert, with eyes on the setting sun, his reveries were of the life about to open for him. For the time being he had forgotten his companion, and was holding pleasurable communion with himself, absorbed in the contemplation of his usefulness when once he had entered upon that mission for which he had been always fitting himself. He was aroused by an almost inaudible sigh, and he glanced across at Meg with eyes which were as yet blind to emotion.

She was not looking at him now, and he watched her with satisfaction.

She had puzzled and bewildered him ever since he had met her, and he had only occasionally had glimpses of her real character. There were times when he distinctly disapproved of her, and his training had been such that he considered it almost an imperative duty to tell her of it.

Then with a quick subtle change of manner she would do something, some little gracious act, that would cause him to repent of his harsher judgment. But through all the varied changes of her moods, she attracted him.

She had fallen into one of her silences, and sat looking out over the water with an expression so tender and childish, that for some reason he would have been unable to explain, a great wave of pity swept over him, and the longing to shelter her from harm became uppermost in his mind.

When she spoke, it was dreamily. "I do love the water, and the sunset, and the sound of the oars as they lap the waves." Then, in a more sprightly manner,-"It has the effect of shaded lights and soft music. I am so _good_ at such times! All my thoughts are uplifting. Do you feel that way?"

Amused by her vagaries, he nodded, and the encouragement started her off again: "I almost weep to think how n.o.ble I am. Nothing that is petty or mean has any connection with me. Even Aunt Amelia I view through that rosy mist, and conjure up the kind things she _might_ have done, the tender words she _might_ have spoken,-and I think with a swelling heart that I will try to appreciate those 'might have beens,'-that I will so conduct myself as to make them possible."

"And then?" as she paused.

"Oh, then," with a trace of bitterness in her voice, "then the red lights flicker and go out, and the pungent odor of kerosene oil is all that remains of them. The music stops with a last protesting wail of the violin, and the musicians hurry away after their beer and pretzels."

"And what becomes of you and your n.o.ble thoughts?"

"Oh, I take my n.o.ble thoughts and go home, and quarrel with Aunt Amelia."

Robert laughed so heartily that Meg leaned forward and said: "Sometimes I light the piano-lamp, and start the music-box going in the parlor after I go home."

As they walked up the flower-bordered path to the house, Meg remarked softly, "I feel that I could wash and crimp Auntie's hair, and make it look just lovely, now."

CHAPTER VI.

"Speak low if you speak love."

Robert was walking, with no particular aim in view, when he saw a familiar figure on the walk ahead of him, and hastening, he soon overtook her.

Meg turned her head as his step accustomed itself to hers, and smiled.

"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" he asked lightly.

"Show me the girl who has been teaching you to say that kind of thing,"

she exclaimed with mock anger.

"Lend me your pocket mirror and I will."

"Never!" she said emphatically.

"Never what?"

"Never carried a pocket mirror in my life. Never taught you to make pretty speeches," she said tartly. "Why, the first time I saw you, you sat and twirled your thumbs like a 'bound boy at a corn-husking,' and never said anything but 'Yes'm,' and 'No'm,' and then only when you were spoken to!"

"That proves what I affirm. That was the way I was when I met _you_,-and look at me now!" with an air of conscious pride.

"Yes, look at you now!" she mocked scornfully, "with Mother Goose plat.i.tudes tripping off your tongue like extracts from the Hebrew Decalogue. Why don't you stick to your last? You might say all the nice things you wished in Latin, Greek, French, German or Spanish, and I'd have to smirk and act as if I understood, and felt very much flattered."

"And all this because I asked to accompany her on her walk!" he murmured as though to himself.

She gave him an upward look through her lashes that made him feel very peculiar, as she said sweetly, "Well, you know I didn't mean it. I _like_ to have nice things said to me."

"By every one?" he queried idly, without looking at her.

"Well, no," she admitted slowly.