giving a lazy growl whenever Fred ventured to move.
Out on the lawn, Bess and Mr. Muir were playing tennis,—for it was strange how often the young man had occasion to spend two or three days with Mr. Washburn. Fred could hear the thud of their balls against the rackets, and listened idly to their voices; but although his admiration for Mr. Muir amounted to a sort of hero-worship, he was too cross and dismal to-day to follow him about, as he usually did, or to respond to his pleasant, merry greeting. Everybody was having a good time but just himself, and he couldn’t do anything at all. Everything was going wrong to-day. Miss Bess was too busy to read to him, just because that bothering old Mr. Muir was always round,—and, for a moment, Fred almost hated his idol. If he had only known that he was going to be here, he would have gone with the boys. He wished he had.
Fred’s meditations had just reached this point, when he heard Rob’s voice calling from the street,—
“Cousin Bess, where’s Fred?”
