Loring: "_El pias minga a mi._" Bobby
thought in the Lake dialect. It was his medium of intercourse with Rosa.
He did not know why he did not like Loring. The young man was
particularly nice to him--or tried to be. Children are peculiar. What
seems "being nice" to grown-ups, does not always appeal to them by any
means. For one thing, Loring always addressed him as "General." This
soldierly epithet would have pleased some little boys. It did not please
Bobby. He preferred to be called by his own name. Doubtless jealousy had
something to do with his dislike of Loring. Until the young man had
appeared in the neighbourhood, Bobby had had his mother almost entirely
to himself. Now "Mr. Lorwing," like the world in the great sonnet, was
too much with them. He even intruded on the hours heretofore sacred to
Bobby--firelight hours just before bedtime, when "Muvvah" used to tell
such lovely fairy tales: hours like this one, in which Bobby had looked
forward to gathering the first chestnuts of the season--just he and
"Muvvah," with Rosa to throw sticks into the big trees for them. So
Bobby trotted along in sober silence, wishing that something would
happen to make Mr. Lorwing go away forever.

Rosa walked happily in the rear, gathering a great posy of autumn
flowers.

The afternoon was lovely--mild yet sparkling. The blue autumnal haze
veiled everything. The sky was almost purple. Against it melted clouds
of silverish azure. Just over the yellowing wood hung a frail day-moon.

"What a blue day!" said Sophy, looking up at the fragile disk. "Even the
moon is blue--it looks as if it were made of thin blue crystal...."

Loring was looking at her.

"That's a good omen--a 'blue moon,'" he said. "All sorts of wonders
happen in a 'blue moon.'"

"Well, we might find a blue rose," said Sophy, smiling.

"I've found one."

"Ah! Shall you press it or preserve it in spirits?"

"Blue roses don't fade."

Sophy answered flippantly that in that case he would always be provided
with a unique and inexpensive "button-hole"--much more unique and
economical than Mr. Chamberlain's orchid.

Loring was still looking at her. She did not look at him, but kept
glancing about her at the October landscape that she loved best of all.

"It seems queer that you're so contented in this quiet old place after
having led such a brilliant life abroad," he said. This strain of
thought had been roused in him by the mention of Mr. Chamberlain's
orchid. "I s