"Cousin Chilian, why are the parlors always shut up, and why don't you have people coming and going, and saying bright things, and talking about the improvements and—and Napoleon and the wars in Europe, and the new streets and houses, and, oh, ever so many things?"
He looked at the tightly closed shutters. In his father's time there were visitors, discussions, playing at whist and loo, and little suppers. She wouldn't care for that, of course. Yet he remembered that she had been interested in the talks at Boston.
"Why, yes; the rooms could be opened. Only we have grown so at home in the sitting-room, and you and I in the study."
"At the Dearborns' they keep the house all open and lighted up, as they do in Boston. And they ask in young people and have plays, and charades, and funny conundrums——"
Oh, she was young and should have this kind of life. How should he set about it? He must ask Miss Winn. But he ventured rather timidly, for a man.
"Would you like—well, some girls in to tea? They ask you so often. And there is no reason why we should all be hermits."
She sprang up and clasped her arms about his neck.
"Oh, I just should. At first when Cousin Elizabeth went away, and the lessons were difficult, and it was winter, but now everything seems so joyous——"
"Why, yes; we must talk to Miss Winn about it, Cynthia," and his voice dropped to a tender inflection. "I want you to feel this is your home and you must have all the joy and pleasures of youth. You need never be afraid. I've been a rather dull old fellow——"
"Oh, you're not old. You're not as old as Cousin Giles, and ever so much handsomer. The girls at school think," she flushed and paused, "that you were so good to get me the pony and the pretty wagon." She was going to say something much more flattering, but delicacy stopped her.