sketch; will you come?” said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.
“Well, yes; but isn’t it rather warm for such a long walk?” he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting, after the glare without.
“I’m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you’ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your gloves nice,” returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie.
“Then I’ll go with pleasure;” and he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp—
“Don’t trouble yourself; it’s no exertion to me, but you don’t look equal to it.”
Laurie lifted his eyebrows, and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs; but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch.
The two never quarrelled—Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an inquiring air; she answered with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner.
It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone, while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly-cut grass, passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between