“I reckon on account of the purty shadows down in the brush, and the soft light, eh? and all that?” he continued, with a playful manner but a serious accession of color.
“Why, the woods belong to us. It's mar's property!” broke in Eunice with a flash of teeth.
“Well, Lordy, I wanter know!” said Mr. Bowers, in some astonishment. “Why, that's right in my line, too! I've been sightin' timber all along here, and that's how I dropped in on yer mar.” Then, seeing a look of eagerness light up the faces of Bob and Eunice, he was encouraged to make the most of his opportunity. “Why, ma'am,” he went on, cheerfully, “I reckon you're holdin' that wood at a pretty stiff figger, now.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Delatour, simply.
Mr. Bowers delivered a wink at Bob and Eunice, who were still watching him with anxiety. “Well, not on account of the actool timber, for the best of it ain't sound,” he said, “but on account of its bein' famous! Everybody that reads that pow'ful pretty poem about it in the 'Excelsior Magazine' wants to see it. Why, it would pay the Green Springs hotel-keeper to buy it up for his customers. But I s'pose you reckon to keep it—along with the poetess—in your famerly?”
Although Mr. Bowers long considered this speech as the happiest and most brilliant effort of his life, its immediate effect was not, perhaps, all that could be desired. The widow turned upon him a restrained and darkening face. Cynthia half rose with an appealing “Oh, mar!” and Bob and Eunice, having apparently pinched each other to the last stage of endurance, retired precipitately from the room in a prolonged giggle.
“I have not yet thought of disposing of the Summit woods, Mr. Bowers,” said Mrs. Delatour, coldly, “but if I should do so, I will consult you. You must excuse the children, who see so little company, they are quite unmanageable when strangers are present. Cynthia, WILL you see if the servants have looked after Mr. Bowers's horse? You know Bob is not to be trusted.”
There was clearly nothing else for Mr. Bowers to do but to take his leave, which he did respectfully, if not altogether hopefully. But when he had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle of Bob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of a wayside sapling.
“Hol' up, mister. Look here!”
Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backward glance over his shoulder, said:—