Hazel drooped her head till her 'point of view' must have been
at least merged in the brim of her flat hat, and went at her
drawing. That she had merged herself as well in the interest
of the game, was soon plain,--shyness and everything else went
to the winds: only when (according to habit) some scrap of a
song broke from her lips, then did she rebuke herself with an
impatient gesture or exclamation, while the hat drooped lower
than ever. It was pretty to see and to hear her,--those very
outbreaks were so free and girlish and wayward, and at the
same time so sweet. Several minutes of the prescribed time
slipped away.

'How soon do you go to Chickaree?' said the gentleman, in a
pre-engaged tone, very busy with his pencil.

'How soon?' repeated the lady, surveying her own sketch--'why--
not too soon for anybody that wants me away, I suppose. Ask
Mr. Falkirk.'

'Is it long since you have seen the place?'

'I can hardly be said to have "seen" it at all. I think my
landscape eyes were not open at that remote period of which
you speak.'

'I was a red squirrel then, in the "former state" to which I
referred a while ago. So you see your late threat has no
terrors for me. Is it in process of execution?'

'O were you?' said Miss Hazel, absorbed in her drawing. 'Yes--