"Father thinks it wonderful how quiet and contented Mr. Russell is in such a dull village," I said.
"And your mother quotes old Watts about 'idle hands.' A woman often sees farther than a man, Kitty. My brother finds amusement of some sort, or he would not be so willing to stay. The question is, what sort of amusement? An idle young fellow has it in his power to work mischief, unless—"
"I thought you were so fond of him," I said. And I did feel hurt for Mr. Russell—not there to defend himself.
"Yes—more than fond," she answered. "I love him with more than a sister's love, my dear. It is like a mother's love, I believe, for it can see his faults and look to what is for his good."
That was all that passed, for she had talked more than she ought. I felt rubbed the wrong way by her words. I knew she meant them as a sort of warning to me, and I didn't like it; I didn't want to be warned; I wanted to be let alone. My head was getting more and more full of Mr. Russell, and his soft words were fast winning my foolish little heart. I didn't want to be warned off from him; and I dreaded lest she should say anything to father or mother. She had not done so yet, I knew.
An hour later father happened to ask— "Russell been in to-day?"
"Yes," says mother, who was with us both for a moment, and she spoke drily. "He came to ask after his sister, and I was in the kitchen."
"Ah!" says father.
"I've no notion of him dangling about when you and I aren't there," said she.
"No, no; quite right," said he. "But, all the same, I like him, Kate. He's a nice young fellow, I do believe."