“When you asked me whether I was Bert’s
sister I didn’t like to say ‘no,’
continued the girl; “and at first I let you come
out with me for the fun of the thing, and then Bert
said it would be good for him, and then—then—”
“Yes,” said the skipper, after a long
pause.
The girl broke a biscuit into small pieces, and arranged
them on the cloth. “Then I didn’t
mind your coming so much,” she said, in a low
voice.
The skipper caught his breath and tried to gaze at
the averted face.
The girl swept the crumbs aside and met his gaze squarely.
“Not quite so much,” she explained.
“I’ve been a fool,” said the skipper.
“I’ve been a fool. I’ve made
myself a laughing-stock all round, but if I could have
it all over again I would.”
“That can never be,” said the girl, shaking
her head. “Bert wouldn’t come.”
[Illustration: “‘Good-by,’
he said, slowly; ’and I wish you both every
happiness.’”]
“No, of course not,” asserted the other.
The girl bit her lip. The skipper thought that
he had never seen her eyes so large and shining.
There was a long silence.
“Good-by,” said the girl at last, rising.
The skipper rose to follow. “Good-by,”
he said, slowly; “and I wish you both every
happiness.”
“Happiness?” echoed the girl, in a surprised
voice. “Why?”
“When you are married.”
“I am not going to be married,” said the
girl. “I told Bert so this afternoon.
Good-by.”
The skipper actually let her get nearly to the top
of the ladder before he regained his presence of mind.
Then, in obedience to a powerful tug at the hem of
her skirt, she came down again, and accompanied him
meekly back to the cabin.
[Illustration: HIS LORDSHIP]
Farmer Rose sat in his porch smoking an evening pipe.
By his side, in a comfortable Windsor chair, sat his
friend the miller, also smoking, and gazing with half-closed
eyes at the landscape as he listened for the thousandth
time to his host’s complaints about his daughter.
“The long and the short of it is, Cray,”
said the farmer, with an air of mournful pride, “she’s
far too good-looking.”
Mr. Cray grunted.
“Truth is truth, though she’s my daughter,”
continued Mr. Rose, vaguely. “She’s
too good-looking. Sometimes when I’ve taken
her up to market I’ve seen the folks fair turn
their backs on the cattle and stare at her instead.”
Mr. Cray sniffed; louder, perhaps, than he had intended.
“Beautiful that rose-bush smells,” he
remarked, as his friend turned and eyed him.
“What is the consequence?” demanded the
farmer, relaxing his gaze. “She looks in
the glass and sees herself, and then she gets miserable
and uppish because there ain’t nobody in these
parts good enough for her to marry.”
“It’s a extraordinary thing to me where
she gets them good looks from,” said the miller,
deliberately.
