Sophy felt relieved at that reply. Whatever is habitual in a man’s manner, however unpleasant, is seldom formidable. Still Sophy could not help saying: “I wish poor Sir Isaac were here!”
“Do you?” said a soft voice behind her; “and pray, who is Sir Isaac?”
The speaker was Darrell, who had come forth with the resolute intent to see more of Sophy, and make himself as amiably social as he could. Guy Darrell could never be kind by halves.
“Sir Isaac is the wonderful dog you have heard me describe,” replied George.
“Would he hurt my doe if he came here?” asked Darrell.
“Oh, no!” cried Sophy; “he never hurts anything. He once found a wounded hare, and he brought it in his mouth to us so tenderly, and seemed so anxious that we should cure it, which grandfather did, and the hare would sometimes hurt him, but he never hurt the hare.”
Said George sonorously:
“Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.”
Darrell drew Sophy’s arm into his own. “Will you walk back to the lake with me,” said he, “and help me to feed the swans? George, send your servant express for Sir Isaac. I am impatient to make his acquaintance.”
Sophy’s hand involuntarily pressed Darrell’s arm. She looked up into his face with innocent, joyous gratitude; feeling at once, and as by magic, that her awe of him was gone.