"A young man!" smiled Harrod. "What is he now?"
"I should think he must be nearly thirty-five," said I, gravely. "And you know he's a widower."
"Indeed! Well, he's not too old to marry again," smiled Trayton Harrod, looking at me.
"That's what mother says," answered I. And then I added—and Heaven knows what induced me to do it, for I had no right to speak of it—"Some folk think he's sweet on my sister."
It was unlike me to babble of family secrets. I glanced at my companion. There was a little scowl upon his brow; it was usually there when he was thinking, and he was ruffled still with vexation at mother's unusual want of tact. He looked after her where she was talking with the squire.
"Oh, is it to be a match?" he asked, carelessly.
"Oh, dear no," laughed I. "Joyce—"
I was going to say, "Joyce cares for some one else," but luckily I remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time.
"Joyce doesn't even think he likes her," I added instead.