One day it rained a little; in fact, it often does so. Florence Hay was
returning home from the village just as the shower came up, and, partly
out of regard for my mother, with whom she was a great favorite, partly
from the fear of ruining her new spring bonnet, she stepped into our
house.
My mother was delighted to see her, and made her quite at home directly.
It was no new thing for the little maiden to visit my mother; but on such
occasions I had always, hitherto, taken flight to the fields or the
hay-mow. Now, however, it was raining hard, and I was holding silk for
my mother to mind; and a retreat was impossible.
Though in exquisite torture, every moment, lest the pretty visitor should
address some question to me, and oblige me to speak, yet I enjoyed being
where I could look into her bewitching face immensely. She had such blue
eyes! and such cherry lips! And those lips had kissed me! I blushed
red-hot to think of it, and my good mother anxiously commented on my high
color, saying she was afraid I was going to have the erysipelas.
Erysipelas, indeed!
It rained all the afternoon. Florence stayed to tea, and, by the time the
meal was over, I had broken two plates, knocked down a saucer, upset the
cream pitcher, and nearly cut the end of my thumb off with my knife.
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