Bernard Carrick went to meet his guest. He could have picked him from the group at once by his decidedly foreign air, the French aspect. He was past sixty, rather tall, and very erect, almost soldierly, with a beautiful white beard, though his hair was only half sprinkled with snow. Clear, rather soft dark eyes, and a high-bred air that gave a grave, yet kindly, expression to his countenance. He had his horse, as well as his servant, who was a rather small, shrewd-eyed Frenchman.
Carrick introduced himself, and welcomed his guest cordially, explaining to him that they had not arrived at the dignity of hotels, and that the taverns were but poor affairs, so he would be pleased to offer him the hospitality of his own house.
"Thank you," he returned. "You are the father of my ward, I presume."
"Yes, she is my little girl;" with a smile.
"An odd sort of charge. Though I suppose it was because I was of his country. Nations are clannish."
"We shall get so mixed up that we shall hardly be able to trace our forbears. On her mother's side my little girl is mostly French."
"A little girl!" He seemed surprised.
"She will always be that to me. Only heaven knows my joy and gratitude at coming home from the long struggle, and finding her and her mother alive; indeed, the whole household. I have had a son born since."
"Yes. You were in the war. You may be proud of that. It will be an honor to hand down to your son. But your town——"
With a vague glance around, and an expression that was clearly not admiration.