Dr. Deane did not notice this thrust: it was not his habit to get angry. “Put thyself in my place, Betsy,” he said. “He's a worthy young man, in some respects, I grant thee, but would thee like thy daughter to be seen riding home beside him from Meeting? It's one thing speaking for thyself, and another for thy daughter.”
“Thy daughter!” she repeated. “Old or young can't make any difference, as I see.”
There was something else on her tongue, but she forcibly withheld the words. She would not exhaust her ammunition until there was both a chance and a necessity to do some execution. The next moment Martha reentered the room.
After dinner, they formed a quiet group in the front sitting-room. Dr. Deane, having no more visits to make that day, took a pipe of choice tobacco,—the present of a Virginia Friend, whose acquaintance he had made at Yearly Meeting,—and seated himself in the arm-chair beside the stove. Martha, at the west window, enjoyed a volume of Hannah More, and Miss Betsy, at the front window, labored over the Psalms. The sun shone with dim, muffled orb, but the air without was mild, and there were already brown tufts, which would soon be blossoms, on the lilac twigs.
Suddenly Miss Betsy lifted up her head and exclaimed, “Well, I never!” As she did so, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Dr. Deane, and in came Mr. Alfred Barton, resplendent in blue coat, buff waistcoat, cambric ruffles, and silver-gilt buckles. But, alas! the bunch of seals—topaz, agate, and cornelian—no longer buoyed the deep-anchored watch. The money due his father had been promptly paid, through the agency of a three-months' promissory note, and thus the most momentous result of the robbery was overcome. This security for the future, however, scarcely consoled him for the painful privation of the present. Without the watch, Alfred Barton felt that much of his dignity and importance was lacking.
Dr. Deane greeted his visitor with respect, Martha with the courtesy due to a guest, and Miss Betsy with the offhand, independent manner, under which she masked her private opinions of the persons whom she met.
“Mark isn't at home, I see,” said Mr. Barton, after having taken his seat in the centre of the room: “I thought I'd have a little talk with him about the wagon-house. I suppose he told you that I got Hallowell's new barn for him?”
“Yes, and we're all greatly obliged to thee, as well as Mark,” said the Doctor. “The two jobs make a fine start for a young mechanic, and I hope he'll do as well as he's been done by: there's luck in a good beginning. By the bye, has thee heard anything more of Sandy Flash's doings?”
Mr. Barton fairly started at this question. His own misfortune had been carefully kept secret, and he could not suspect that the Doctor knew it; but he nervously dreaded the sound of the terrible name.