"Oh," she said, "yes, it is a heavenly day—what a pity that you cannot go out," and, with a little haste in her manner, Agnes left the room.
Mabel looked out of the window, in time to catch a glimpse of James Harrington walking slowly and thoughtfully towards the shore. Directly Agnes Barker joined him, and they seemed to enter into conversation, but moved on, and were soon out of sight.
He was not ill then, but avoided her purposely, and took long strolls with that strange girl. More and worse—no other hand could have arranged those rose buds. Years and years ago, she had worn such buds and leaves, tint for tint, upon her own bosom. Alas, that the memory gave her so much anguish.
CHAPTER XXI.
BEN BENSON GIVES AN OPINION.
Mabel went back into the room sick and faint; her heart was enveloped in shadows again.
Another knock at the door, a rambling timid knock, as if every knuckle of a great hand lent its own sound to the wood. Mabel was impatient and cried out, "come in, come in."
The door half opened and closed, opened again, and a huge foot was planted on a cluster of roses in the carpet. Another foot appeared, and our old friend Ben presented himself with a small basket on his arm, and a huge bouquet of wild flowers in hand.
"I beg pardon, marm," said the honest fellow, taking off his tarpaulin and setting it down by the door, "I begs any amount of pardons for this here intrusion, but I thought that you'd like to see these ere shiners afore the cook spiled their beauty on the gridiron; besides I found some blue asters and a tuft of golden-rod in a holler of the woods that the frost hasn't found out yet, and tied 'em up ship shape, thinking as you might like the smell on 'em, now that they've got so scarce."
The quick tears sprung into Mabel Harrington's eyes. She held out her hand with that beaming expression of face which rendered her at times more than beautiful.