"I'm glad you think so," answered Leslie, with her genuine smile again.
The two had already made up their minds to be friends. In fact, Master Thayne would hardly have acquiesced in being led up for introduction to any other young girl in the room. There had been something in Leslie Goldthwaite's face that had looked kind and sisterly to him. He had no fear of a snub with her; and these things Mr. Wharne had read, in his behalf, as well.
"He's a queer old fellow, that Mr. Wharne, isn't he?" pursued Master Thayne, after forward and back, as he turned his partner to place. "But he's the only one that's had anything to say to me, and I like him. I've been down to the old mill with him to-day. Those people"—motioning slightly toward the other set, where the Thoresbys were dancing—"were down there, too. You'd ought to have seen them look! Don't they hate him, though?"
"Hate him? Why should they do that?"
"Oh, I don't know. People feel each other out, I suppose. And a word of his is as much as a whole preach of anybody's else. He says a word now and then, and it hits."
"Yes," responded Leslie, laughing.
"What did you do it for?" whispered Elinor, in hands across.
"I like him; he's got something to say," returned Leslie.
"Augusta's looking at you, like a hen after a stray chicken. She's all but clucking now."
"Mr. Wharne will tell her."