"I wish you to understand, girls," said Horace, flourishing his hat,
"that I'm not going to cart round any such trash for you this summer."
"Now, Horace!"
"You know, Gracie, you belong to a Girls' Rights' Society. Do you
suppose I want to interfere with your privileges?"
"Why, Horace Clifford, you wouldn't see your own sister trundling a
wheelbarrow?"
"O, no; I shan't be there," said Horace, coolly; "I shan't see you. I
promised to weed the verbena bed for your aunt Louise. Good by, girls.
Success to the rag-bag!"
"Let's catch him!" cried Susy, darting after her ungallant cousin; but
he ran so fast, and flourished his garden hoe so recklessly, that she
gave up the chase.
"Let him go," said Grace, with a fine-lady air: "who cares about
rag-bags? We've outgrown that sort of thing, you and I, Susy; let the
little girls have our share."
"Yes, to be sure," replied Susy, faintly, though not without a pang,
for she still retained a childish fondness for jujube paste, and was
not allowed a great abundance of pocket-money.
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