Page:Leah Reed--Brenda's summer at Rockley.djvu/164

148 “Oh, no, indeed, I’m sure that she would n’t do that. Amy is very sensitive about her own verses. She hardly ever reads any of them to me.”

“Well, then I’m rather lucky. I have several things that she has given me. You know I think it’s just great for a girl to be able to write the way she does. Well, I suppose that it’s no use to wait for her, especially as  she can’t go with me,” and Fritz, bidding Mrs. Redmond  good-bye, went downstairs. As he passed the door of the sitting-room, a sudden thought seized him, and he  went to the little desk belonging to Amy, which stood in one corner. A large book lay on top of it, and, opening the covers, he took out several loose sheets of  paper.

“The very thing,” he exclaimed, and he folded up the sheets, and placed them in his pocket.

Now on the Thursday of their expedition to Marblehead, the four girls were especially favored by the weather. It was one of those gray days that occasionally come in  summer; the kind of day when a photographer knows  the instantaneous views are out of question, and yet the  kind of day that persons fond of out-door life welcome  heartily. They know that they can walk or ride or wheel almost as comfortably as in autumn.

“Are all the young people in Marblehead dead?” asked Nora, frivolously, as they stood at the head of a narrow hilly street.

“What a question!” Brenda’s voice sounded just a little impatient.