“What is it about?”

“Oh,—­about a banished duke, who lived in the Forest, like Robin Hood, you know, with a lot of people who were fond of him.  He had a daughter, named Rosalind, and after a while she was banished too and went to look for her father in the Forest.  Her cousin Celia and a funny clown, Touchstone, went with her, and they were all disguised.  And—­well, there is a great deal more to it—­but they were all cheerful and brave—­everybody is in the Forest of Arden, because they are sure there is good in everything if you only try to find it.”

“But that is all a story.  It isn’t true.”

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“There wasn’t a bit of good in hurting my knee and having the whole summer spoiled.”  Maurice’s tone was undeniably fretful.

“If you had been banished as Rosalind was, I suppose you would not have thought there was any good in that; but she didn’t cry about it.  She made the best of it, and had a good time in spite of it.”

“Who says I was crying?” Maurice demanded angrily.

Rosalind opened her gray eyes wide, then she sat up and tossed back her hair.  Maurice felt convicted of rudeness.  Was she going?  He hoped not, for he wished to talk to her.

“I suppose I am rather cross,” he acknowledged; “but don’t you think it is pretty hard to hurt your knee and have to walk with a crutch, and stay at home when the other boys go fishing?”

“Yes, indeed.  Does it hurt much?” Rosalind asked, with ready sympathy.

“No, not now; it did at first, but the doctor says it will be five or six months before it is well again.”

“Then it isn’t for always?  That is something good.”

Maurice somehow felt uncomfortable.  He did not wish the emphasis laid on the good.  It seemed wise to change the subject.  “What a lot of hair you have,” he remarked.

“It has been washed, and grandmamma said I might dry it in the sun,” Rosalind explained, shaking her head so vigorously she was enveloped in a shining cloud.

“Isn’t it a great bother?  Kit hates to have hers braided.”

“Who is Kit?”

“She is my sister Katherine.”

“It must be nice to have a sister.  I haven’t anybody but father and Cousin Louis, and of course they are better than any one else.  There are grandmamma and Aunt Genevieve, but I am not very well acquainted with them yet.  I should love to have some children related to me.”

I have a little sister, too; her name is Blossom.  That is, her real name is Mary, and we call her Blossom.”

“Kit and Blossom; and what is your name?” Rosalind asked.

“Maurice Roberts.”

Rosalind tossed back her hair and began to twist it into a shining rope.  “I am Rosalind Whittredge,” she said.  “I should not think you would ever be unhappy,” she added.

“Do you know, I saw you last Sunday when you were studying something.  Kit and I peeped at you through the hedge.”