'That reminds me that she will be expecting us,' returned Polly, springing off the stile without waiting for his hand. She had shaken off her serious mood, and chatted gaily as they hurried along the upper woodland path; her hands were full of roses and great clusters of campanula by the time they reached Mildred, who was sitting on a little knoll that overlooked the Scar. In winter-time the beck rushed noisily down the high rocky face of the cliff, but now the long drought had dried up its sources, and with the exception of a few still pools the riverbed was dry. Mildred sat with her elbow on her knee, looking dreamily at the gray scarped rock and overhanging vegetation; while Olive and Chriss scrambled over the slippery boulders in search of ferns. Behind the dark woods the sunset clouds were flaming with breadths of crimson and yellow glory. Over the barren rocks a tiny crescent moon was rising; Mildred's eyes were riveted on it. 'We have found some butterwort and kingcups; Dr. Heriot declares it is the same that Shakespeare calls "Winking Mary-buds." You must add it to your wild-flower collection, Aunt Milly.' 'Are you tired of waiting for us, Miss Lambert? Polly has been giving me some trouble, and I have had to lecture her.' 'Not very severely, I expect,' returned Mildred. She looked anxiously from one to another, but Polly's gaiety reassured her as she flung a handful of flowers into her lap, and then proceeded to sort and arrange them. 'You might give us Perdita's pretty speech, Polly,' said Dr. Heriot, who leant against a young thorn watching her. Polly gave a mischievous little laugh. She remembered the quotation; Roy had so often repeated it. He would spout pages of Shakespeare as they walked through the wintry woods. 'You have brought it upon yourself,' she cried, holding up to him a long festoon of gaudy weeds, and repeating the lines in her fresh young voice. 'Here's flowers for you! Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. You are very welcome.' 'Oh, Polly--Polly--fie!' 'Little Heartsease, do you know what you deserve?' but Dr. Heriot evidently enjoyed the mischief. 'After all, I brought it on myself. I believe I was thinking of the crazy Danish maid, Ophelia, all the time.' 'You have had your turn,' answered Polly, with her prettiest pout; 'my next shall be for Aunt Milly. I am afraid I don't look much like Ophelia, though. There, Aunt Milly--there's rosemary, that's for remembrance--pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.' 'Make them as gay as your own, Heartsease;' then-- 'Hush, don't interrupt me; I am making Aunt Milly shiver. "There's fennel for you and columbines; there's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. You may wear your rue with a difference."'