“We must not be mercenary, little one.”
Before we had finished, papa came in again. We were all on the boys’ side, I could plainly see.
The next morning I aired the large spare room, brought out fresh towels, and arranged some flowers in the vases. There was matting on the floor, a maple bureau, wash-stand, and bedstead. The curtains were thin white muslin, with green blinds outside, which gave the apartment a pretty, pale tint.
I didn’t mean to put the two boys in this room when they came. There was another, opposite, not quite so nice, plenty good enough for rollicking boys.
Papa went over to the station for Stephen.—Mr. Duncan, I mean. I wondered why I should have such an inclination to call him by his Christian name—a perfect stranger, too. But when I saw him I was as formal as you please.
As tall as papa, and somewhat stouter, with a grave and rather impressive air, eyes that could look you through, a firm mouth, that, somehow, seemed to me, might be very stern and pitiless. He had a broad forehead, with a good deal of fine, dark hair; but, what I thought very singular, blue eyes, which reminded you of a lake in the shade. His side-whiskers and mustache gave him a very stylish look, and he was dressed elegantly. Poor papa looked shabby beside him.
Mamma and the baby, Fanny and I, were on the wide porch, while the children were playing croquet on the grassy lawn, though I do so much like the old-fashioned name of “door-yard.” Papa introduced him in his homelike, cordial fashion, and he shook hands in a kind of stately manner that didn’t seem a bit like his letter.
He came to me last. I knew he did not like me. I think you can always tell when any one is pleased with you. He studied me rather sharply, and almost frowned a little. I felt that it was my red hair. And then I colored all over, put out my hand awkwardly, and wished I was anywhere out of sight.
“And all the small crowd out there,” said papa, in so gay a voice that it quite restored me to composure.
“Really, friend Endicott, I was not prepared for this.—Why, Mrs. Endicott, how have you kept your youth and bloom? Why, I am suddenly conscience-smitten that I have proposed to add to your cares.”