Fleda stood silent a moment, and then with a touching
look of waiting patience in her sweet face suffered
Mr. Carleton to help her over the fence; and they
went home.
To Fleda’s unspeakable surprise it was found
to be past four o’clock, and Cynthy had supper
ready. Mr. Ringgan with great cordiality invited
Mr. Carleton to stay with them, but he could not;
his mother would expect him to dinner.
“Where is your mother?”
“At Montepoole, sir; we have been to Niagara,
and came this way on our return; partly that my mother
might fulfil the promise she made Mrs. Rossitur—to
let you know, sir, with how much pleasure she will
take charge of your little granddaughter and convey
her to her friends in Paris, if you can think it best
to let her go.”
“Hum!—she is very kind.” said
Mr. Ringgan, with a look of grave and not unmoved
consideration which Fleda did not in the least like;—“How
long will you stay at Montepoole, sir?”
It might be several days, Mr. Carleton said.
“Hum—You have given up this day to
Fleda, Mr. Carleton,—suppose you take to-morrow
for the game, and come here and try our country fare
when you have got through shooting?—you
and young Mr. Rossitur?—and I’ll think
over this question and let you know about it.”
Fleda was delighted to see that her friend accepted
this invitation with apparent pleasure.
“You will be kind enough to give my respects
to your mother,” Mr. Ringgan went on, “and
thanks for her kind offer. I may perhaps—I
don’t know—avail myself of it.
If anything should bring Mrs. Carleton this way we
should like to see her. I am glad to see my friends,”
he said, shaking the young gentleman’s hand,—“as
long as I have a house to ask ’em to!”
“That will be for many years, I trust,”
said Mr. Carleton respectfully, struck with something
in the old gentleman’s manner.
“I don’t know, sir!” said Mr. Ringgan,
with again the dignified look of trouble;—“it
may not be!—I wish you good day, sir.”
A mind that in a calm angelic mood
Of happy wisdom, meditating good,
Beholds, of all from her high powers required,
Much done, and much designed, and more
desired.
Wordsworth.
“I’ve had such a delicious day, dear grandpa,”—said
little Fleda as they sat at supper;—“you
can’t think how kind Mr. Carleton has been.”
“Has he?—Well dear—I’m
glad on’t,—he seems a very nice young
man.”
“He’s a smart-lookin’ feller,”
said Cynthy, who was pouring out the tea.
“And we have got the greatest quantity of nuts!”
Fleda went on,—“enough for all winter.
Cynthy and I will have to make ever so many journeys
to fetch ’em all; and they are splendid big
ones. Don’t you say anything to Mr. Didenhover,
Cynthy.”
“I don’t desire to meddle with Mr. Didenhover
unless I’ve got to,” said Cynthy with
an expression of considerable disgust. “You
needn’t give no charges to me.”
