"Oh, Dan," I cried, "did you see the new arrival, not exactly in a coach and four, but in Harman's barouche? Madame Maseurier and her mother viewing the town."
"Polly Morrison!" he ejaculated. "How does she look?" He was all interest.
"John thinks like a queen. She is wonderfully handsome, or else it is the fine clothes."
"Come to show them off, I suppose. The old Frenchman with her?"
"No. But she said her husband hardly let her out of his sight."
"I'd trust Polly for squeezing out some dark night if she wanted to." Then he gave his old, merry laugh, and a good-humored nod.
The dinner passed pleasantly. John had a good deal to say about the town.
Dan's strictures rankled in my mind. I really wanted young John to live with us. I liked him so much already, as one might regard a young brother, indeed as I did Chris, only John belonged to me, to father. But I did not want any trouble or jealousy.
The lad went down to the office the next morning, taking some lunch. Dan did not ask about him. He came home very enthusiastic. He had struck just the right thing, he was confident. And, grasping father's hands, he said in his young, earnest voice, he could never be thankful enough for that cordial letter of his.
It was the third day later when father was resting after having spent the morning in the fields, that I took my sewing and sat beside him. Presently I said tentatively: