The walk will do her good.

Lucy Ayres is a real nice girl, and of course Rose wants to see girls of her own age now and then." "It is Sunday," said Henry.

He felt and looked like a hypocrite as he spoke, but the distress in Horace's gaze was too much for him.
Sylvia sniffed.

"Sunday," said she.

"Good land! what has come over you, Henry Whitman?
It has been as much as I could do to get you to go to meeting the last ten years, and now all of a sudden you turn around and think it's wicked for a young girl to run in and see another young girl Sunday afternoon." Sylvia sniffed again very distinctly, and then Rose entered the room.
Her clear, fair face looked from one to another from under her black hat.