"She's an American girl."
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful
young lady advancing. "American girls are the best girls,"
he said cheerfully to his young companion.
"My sister ain't the best!" the child declared.
"She's always blowing at me."
"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne.
The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin,
with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon.
She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol,
with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty.
"How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne, straightening himself
in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden,
which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock
into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel
and kicking it up not a little.
"Randolph," said the young lady, "what ARE you doing?"
"I'm going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!"
And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles
about Winterbourne's ears.
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