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"You thought it was soap I was giving you, and all the time it was Maple's dark bright navy-blue indelible dye won't wash out." She flashed a looking-glass in his face, and he looked and saw the depth of his dark bright navy-blueness. Now, you may think that we shouted with laughing to see him done brown and dyed blue like this, but we did not. There was a spellbound silence.
The gleam of a maple's leaves near by, already turning scarlet, had caught her eye; she had expressed a wish for some of the gaudy beauties, and he had climbed the tree and was plucking the leaves for her, when, suddenly, the woods resounded with the fierce barking of the dog in the direction from which they had just come.
With a desperate attempt at preserving his dignity he took her back to Maple's, conscious all the time, of her tantalising beauty. He had planned a formal goodbye; but when he told her that his ship was sailing on the next day, she said, quite simply and with an unusual tenderness in her eyes that she was sorry. "If only you meant what you say..." he said, clutching at a straw.
They were also very obedient to commands, moving or lifting the table in whatsoever direction the Author ordered, much as though they were men from Maple's; and when he willed them to raise it, the united forces of Lady Macbeth and Lady Macbeth's Chaperon could not easily depress its spirits. Nor did they contradict one another.
About the cheerless house she had distributed branches of the sugar maple's vermilion and the oak's darker redness, but the fieriest and the brightest clusters of leafage she had saved for the old library where the invalid sat among his cases of old sermons. "Stuart and I gathered these for you," she told him as she arranged them deftly in a vase.
"It takes the stepladder to get at the top shelf, and I put Aunt Philura Maple's pickle-dish up there o' purpose when we was married, and it's never been down since, 'cept for the spring cleaning, and then I always lifted it with my own hands, so's 't shouldn't get broke." She laid the fragments reverently on the table. "I want to know who done this," she quavered.
Dig, who was in the middle of a pull at the ginger ale, put down his tankard suddenly and crammed his handkerchief into his mouth. "Such a game!" said Arthur to Maple's second cousin on his right. "Look round, behind you. Do you see them?" "See whom?" asked the young lady. "Those two. Regular pair of spoons; look at him helping her to raspberry pie. Oh, my word!"
Arthur was comfortably packed between Sherriffs sister and Maple's second cousin, and cheered by game pie and mellowed by ginger ale, made himself vastly agreeable. "See that chap with the sandy wig!" said he to Miss Sherriff, "he's a baronet Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, A.S.S., P.I.G., and nobody knows what else he's my chum; aren't you, Dig?
An hour later she returned, breathless with excitement, carrying the dress that she had bought, a frock of white muslin, high at the neck and hand-embroidered with a pattern of shamrock. Life was becoming a matter of great excitement. The maid at Maple's dressed her in the evening, a blowsy young woman from Carlow who called her 'my darlin, and told her that she had a beautiful head of hair.
His lordship shifted uneasily, and then, in face of the girl's persistence, stood for some time divided between the contending claims of Hampton Court Palace and the Tower of London. He finally decided upon the former, after first refurnishing it at Maple's. "How happy you must be!" said the breathless Jane, when he had finished. He shook his head gravely.
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