"Hush!" said Jacob in an emphatic whisper, from the bed-room; "I will lay down upon the bed—leave the door partly open—now take your seat again where the light will fall on you both. Go—go!"
Mrs. Gray took her seat again, looking very awkward and conscience-stricken. Robert came in flushed with his ride. It was a sharp autumnal evening, and his drive home had been rapid; a brilliant color lay in his cheeks, and the rich hair was blown about his forehead. He flung off his sacque, and cast it down with the heavy whip he carried in one hand.
"Well, aunt, I am back again—that old horse, like wine I have tasted, grows stronger and brighter as he gets old."
"But where is he? the hired-man went away at dark," said Mrs. Gray, anxious for the comfort of her horse.
"Never mind him. I put the blessed pony up myself. You should have heard the old fellow whinney as I gave out his oats. He knew me again."
"Of course he did. I should like to see anything on the place forget you, Robert; it wouldn't stay here long, I give my word for it."
"Oh, aunt, I would not have even a horse or dog sent from the old place for a much greater sin—I know what it is!"
"But you never were sent off, Robert."
"No, aunt, but I went. Instead of superintending the place, and taking the labor from your shoulders, who have no one else to depend on—I must set up for a gentleman—see city life, aunt. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I had never left you!"
"Why, Robert—what makes you wish this? or if you really are homesick, why not come back again?"