If she had been the grandmother of Fritz she could not have spoken in a more parental tone, and yet she was really a year his junior.
Brenda had already decided that Fritz was not the brother of Amy, and she wondered a little why the latter spoke in such a tone of authority regarding him. As if reading her thoughts, Fritz himself began an explanation.
“You see, Amy feels as if she must look after me because I have n’t any one else. My uncle is always so wrapped up in his books. Sometimes he really seems to forget all about me. It’s not very far from our house to where Amy lives, and she comes over every day—when I can’t go to her; and she reads to me, or takes me for a walk, and she’s just awfully good.”
Amy blushed a little under this commendation.
“Well, it’s a great thing for me to have you, Fritz; you ’re more company than any one I know. Is that your carriage?” and Brenda nodded assent as she saw the old gray horse and Thomas and the carryall turning from the road upon the upper end of the beach.
“Don’t forget your book,” cried Amy, with what Brenda thought a shade of contempt, as she pointed to the rocks which they had just left. Brenda turned back, and picked up the paper-covered book which a little while before had almost caused a quarrel between her and Amy—that is, if a quarrel could be considered a possible thing between such new acquaintances.
“May I ride in front?” asked Fritz, rather eagerly, as the carriage approached.
