87The next morning, after breakfast, Margaret went out for a walk down the country lane that ran behind her house. Mr. Thatcher was taking a nap. He had stayed up half the night grading papers.
As Margaret strolled, she wrote in her little soft leather-bound book. She was composing a story. Margaret loved to write stories. The only people who ever read them were her friends and the female servants who appreciated the romance in them.
Margaret had just finished reading over what she wrote last, when she heard footsteps coming toward her. The someone, whose footsteps they belonged to, was whistling an air.
Margaret finally decided to look up and almost groaned outloud.
It was Mr. MacGregor!
"Good morrow to you, Miss Thatcher. Done any sewing lately?"
Oh! How Margaret wanted to slap that mocking smile Frederic gave her, off his face!
"No, sir, I have not," she said cooly, "but, I'll be sure to inform you the next time I do."
Frederic fought the urge to rock on his heels as silence reigned.
"So . ." he began, "how are you, on this fine morning?"
*Isn't a little late for pleasantries, Mr. MacGregor?* Margaret thought to herself.
"I am well, thank-you. How are you?"
"I am well, thank-you."
The dreadfull silence conquered the two once again. Frederic was, once again, the first to break it. "What are you writing?"
Margaret didn't know why she told would she want to share her stories with him? Of all people! Maybe it was the fact that he was majoring in Literature.
Frederic went and sat down by the banks of the nearby stream and read.
Margaret was flattered when she saw how much concentration he was putting into reading her story. No one gave that much attention to her stories.
"I'm flattered at the concentration you are exerting on my story, sir."
"Of course I'm exerting concentration, I can hardly read your handwriting."
Margaret gave an indignant cry and reached out to snatch the book back.
"I was only foolin'!" Frederic said holding the book out of Margaret's reach. "In actuality, I think it is a very good story. Well structured, the characters could use some more development, although I do like your heroine, she has spirit, like someone else I know." He said this with a sly glance in her direction.
Margaret raised her chin. "I'm not like that!" Then blushed when she realized she had just contradicted herself through her behavior.
Frederic chuckled as he handed her book back to her. She snatched it back and sat up, brushing the dirt off her skirt.
"Good day, Mr. MacGregor," she said curtly and continued her walk.
He didn't follow her.