"Mamma!" Lucia raised her head. She looked at her mother inquiringly,
but somehow she felt that Mrs. Costello could not talk to her just then.
A troubled expression crossed her own face for a moment, then she put
down the ball of wool and laid her arms caressingly round her mother's
waist.

But both again remained silent for many minutes, so silent that the
faint wash of the river against the bank sounded plainly, and a
woodpecker could be heard making his last tap-tap on a tree by the
garden-gate.

By-and-by Mrs. Costello spoke again, as if there had been no
interruption. "But about this picnic, Lucia; do you think it would be a
great sacrifice to give it up?"

"A great sacrifice? Why, mamma, you must think me a baby to ask such a
question. I stayed away from the best one last summer without breaking
my heart."

"Last summer I thought you too young for large parties, but this year I
have let you go--and, indeed, I do not forbid your going this time.
Understand that clearly, my child. I have only fancy, not reason, to set
against your wishes."

"Mother, you are not fanciful. Since you wish me to stay at home, I
wish it also. Forget the picnic altogether."

She sprang up, kissed her mother's forehead, and darted away to the
further end of the verandah, bursting out into a gay song as she leaned
over to gather a spray of pale prairie roses that climbed up the