Your old bonnet is almost gone, so I shall plait you
one of this and trim it with a piece of ribbon Aunt Lydia found yesterday
in the attic."
"I don't mind going bareheaded, if you will only eat."
"I was never a hearty eater. Your father used to say that I ate less than a
robin. It was the custom for ladies to have delicate appetites in my day,
you see; and I remember your grandma's amazement when Miss Pokey
Mickleborough was asked at our table what piece of chicken she preferred,
and answered quite aloud, 'Leg, if you please.' She was considered very
indelicate by your grandma, who had never so much as tasted any part except
the wing."
She sat, gentle and upright, in her rosewood chair, her worn silk dress
rustling as she crossed her feet, her beautiful hands moving rapidly with
the straw plaiting. "I was brought up very carefully, my dear," she added,
turning her head with its shining bands of hair a little silvered since the
beginning of the war. "'A girl is like a flower,' your grandpa always said.
'If a rough wind blows near her, her bloom is faded.' Things are different
now--very different."
"But this is war," said Betty.
Mrs. Ambler nodded over the slender braid.
"Yes, this is war," she added with her wistful smile, and a moment
afterward looked up again to ask in a dazed way:--
"What was the last battle, dear? I can't remember."
Betty's glance sought the lawn outside where the warm May sunshine fell in
shafts of light upon the purple lilacs.
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