The girls were ready dressed for their walk.

Industrious Maria had her book.

Idle Zo, perched on a high chair, sat kicking her legs.

"If you say a word," she whispered, as Carmina passed her, "you'll be called an Imp, and stuck up on a chair.

I shall go to the boy." "Are you better, Frances ?" "Much better, my dear." Her face denied it; the look of suffering was there still.