This set both girls in a fit of laughter.
"You can't say that you did not raise a beau while in the Vale,"
cried Jennie, with a roguish twinkle of her eye.
"Indeed, Cousin Marguerite will hare no city chaps skulkin' 'round
while I am here," cried our twelve-year old with all the airs of a
dude of twenty.
Next in turn came a tramp around the proud old domain of
"Gladswood."
The stately elms seemed to extend a kindly welcome. All nature
seemed to say "welcome, to Gladswood." The birds seemed to have been
practising some of their latest melodies, for never did grander
strains issue from their sylvan orchestra.
How pleasantly the hours glided by in this charming abode. Truly it
hath been said--
"How noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers."
"It is a fortnight to-day since I came to Gladswood," said
Marguerite, one bright, sunny afternoon, as she came up the broad
avenue, crowned with lovely wild flowers and such trophies as the
neighboring wood afforded.
Cousin Jennie had remained at home to assist in some extra duties,
and as she greeted the "spirit of the woods," as she playfully
dubbed Marguerite, she was worthy of notice.
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