agreed without any coaxing, and then Bob and Flo went off home.
Next morning Bob stopped as he went by, to say that his father would let him have the horses, all right, but that he couldn't get away until three-thirty. It was a dandy day, and Bess and I and Uncle Rob spent the morning out under the sweet-apple tree, Bess darning and Uncle Rob reading to us about Blennerhasset and Aaron Burr, so as to get "in the atmosphere," he said; and I brought out a picture of the Blennerhasset house, painted by a woman in town who never took any lessons, and who traded the picture to Dad in exchange for a frame for another one. It was all right, only you know the house was built on a curve, sort of like a horse-shoe, and in the picture you couldn't tell whether the curve was toward you or away from you, or whether it stood up in the air like an arch;—it appeared a different way every time you looked at it, and kept you sort of worried for fear that something was the matter with your eyes. She had put some of this shiny flitter all over the trees and roof, too, to make it rich, she said. It wasn't meant
