“I wish I had it to give you.  It must be so splendid to feel that you can do great things if you only have the chance.  And to travel, and see all the lovely pictures and statues, and people and places in Italy.  How happy you must be!” and Merry’s eyes had the wistful look they always wore when she dreamed dreams of the world she loved to live in.

“I am—­so happy that I’m afraid it never will happen.  If I do go, I’ll write and tell you all about the fine sights, and how I get on.  Would you like me to?” asked Ralph, beginning enthusiastically and ending rather bashfully, for he admired Merry very much, and was not quite sure how this proposal would be received.

“Indeed I should!  I’d feel so grand to have letters from Paris and Rome, and you’d have so much to tell it would be almost as good as going myself,” she said, looking off into the daffodil sky, as they paused a minute on the hill-top to get breath, for both had walked as fast as they talked.

“And will you answer the letters?” asked Ralph, watching the innocent face, which looked unusually kind and beautiful to him in that soft light.

“Why, yes; I’d love to, only I shall not have anything interesting to say.  What can I write about?” and Merry smiled as she thought how dull her letters would sound after the exciting details his would doubtless give.

“Write about yourself, and all the rest of the people I know.  Grandma will be gone, and I shall want to hear how you get on.”  Ralph looked very anxious indeed to hear, and Merry promised she would tell all about the other people, adding, as she turned from the evening peace and loveliness to the house, whence came the clatter of milk-pans and the smell of cooking,—­

“I never should have anything very nice to tell about myself, for I don’t do interesting things as you do, and you wouldn’t care to hear about school, and sewing, and messing round at home.”

Merry gave a disdainful little sniff at the savory perfume of ham which saluted them, and paused with her hand on the gate, as if she found it pleasanter out there than in the house.  Ralph seemed to agree with her, for, leaning on the gate, he lingered to say, with real sympathy in his tone and something else in his face, “Yes, I should; so you write and tell me all about it.  I didn’t know you had any worries, for you always seemed like one of the happiest people in the world, with so many to pet and care for you, and plenty of money, and nothing very hard or hateful to do.  You’d think you were well off if you knew as much about poverty and work and never getting what you want, as I do.”

“You bear your worries so well that nobody knows you have them.  I ought not to complain, and I won’t, for I do have all I need.  I’m so glad you are going to get what you want at last;” and Merry held out her hand to say good-night, with so much pleasure in her face that Ralph could not make up his mind to go just yet.