“That depends upon your quarry!”
Lucky Di, to have hit upon that pretty, old-fashioned word! She had, indeed, read her Sir Walter to good purpose.
Now, Mr. Horatio Crosby had held out stoutly against every appeal of natural affection, of reason, of conscience. He was not a quick-tempered man like his son; he was not, like his daughter-in-law, easily rebuffed; but there was about him a toughness of fibre which yielded neither to blows nor to pressure, and which, for many years, neither friend nor foe had penetrated. And here was this young thing simply ignoring the hitherto impenetrable barrier! The clear young eyes looked straight through it, the fresh young voice made nothing of it, the playful fancies overleapt it. A quarry, indeed! Where had the child got hold of the word? 260
Of a sudden the old man bent forward and lightly touched the laughing face in token of surrender.
“It’s an old bird you’ve winged, little girl,” he said, as he rose to his feet and stepped once more to the bell-rope; and this time he really rang for his coat and overshoes.
“And so you’ve named this little chap Horatio?”
Dinner was over,—a very pleasant, natural kind of dinner, too, in spite of the difficulty some of the family had found in eating it,—and they were all gathered about a roaring woodfire, fortifying themselves, with the aid of coffee, cigars, and chocolate-drops,—each according to his kind,—for a game of blind-man’s-buff. The small scion of the house was seated on his grandfather’s knee, playing with his grandfather’s fob, after the immemorial habit of small scions.
“Of course we named him Horatio!” It was Mrs. Crosby who answered, and, 261 as her father-in-law looked across at her face with the firelight playing upon it, he seemed to remember that he had always wished for a daughter.
“And what do you call him for short?”